Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  'So he's protecting you from yourself,' Terry said. 'This is your time to say goodbye to your wife, to grieve for her, not to go vigilante on us.'

  'Did you even bother asking Kilcullen if I could work on the case?'

  'For the record, we asked,' Terry said. 'The three of us agree.'

  Reggie slumped in his chair. His tie was hanging loosely around his neck. There were dark sweat circles under the sleeves of his yellow shirt. 'Who lost the coin toss?' he said.

  'What do you mean?' Terry said.

  'My wife was murdered. I'm an automatic suspect. Somebody's got to ask the nasty questions. I was just wondering which one of you drew the short straw. I'll tell you what - I'll spare you the embarrassment.'

  He stood up and looked down at the vacant chair. 'So, Reggie, who were you banging?'

  He sat back down and answered. 'Nobody, Detective. I loved my wife.'

  Back on his feet again. 'How about Jo - all those guys hitting on her - you think she ever got involved?'

  He sat down and shook his head. 'No. Never.'

  He got up one last time. 'So there were no marital problems?'

  This time he didn't bother sitting down. He just stood there and stared at me and Terry. 'Just the one problem,' he said. 'She snored, but I wouldn't say it was loud enough to shoot her. So stop wasting time and find out who the fuck did.'

  He walked out the door. The interview was over.

  Chapter Eight

  As a kid growing up in Manchester, England, Detective Chris High had two passions. Football and surfing. Manchester has two football teams but no oceans, so at seventeen Chris moved to LA, bought himself a board, and became an all-American surfer.

  It was, as the Beach Boys say, fun, fun, fun. Until he broke his neck. After nine months in a halo brace and a year in therapy, he decided that becoming a cop would be a safer bet than being a surfer dude.

  Chris runs the Hollywood Apprehension Team. When a detective gets a warrant, the HAT squad does the legwork and makes the arrest. Today they were called in to canvass the area where Jo Drabyak was murdered.

  At six o'clock Kilcullen pulled a dozen detectives into the break room to kick around different perspectives on the case. Chris High led off with a No Progress Report.

  'Nobody bloody saw anything,' he said. 'One bloke walking his dog heard a garage door at 23:15 hours, which is when the victim was expected home, but he didn't see anything, so he can't be sure if it was her.'

  'Is that all you came up with?' Kilcullen said.

  'We've only tracked down half the neighbours. We'll be sweeping the area again at 19:00 hours. But so far, nothing. Whoever did this was a bloody pro.'

  'What about this guy who sent the roses?' Kilcullen said.

  Terry and I had sent Detectives Pat Sutula and Andy Langer to interview the guy who sent the flowers. They're known around the squad room as Penn and Teller. She does all the talking. Langer is stony silent.

  'His name is Roger Levinson,' Sutula said. 'He's an accountant in Burbank. His daughter got married last night. Mrs Drabyak planned the wedding. Levinson got drunk, came on to her, then tried to make nice with two dozen roses. He has an alibi for the time of death.'

  'Which is when?' Kilcullen asked.

  'Keating gave us a two-hour spread this morning,' I said. 'I just spoke to her, and she's narrowed it down to somewhere between ten forty-five and eleven thirty last night. We might be able to narrow it down even more. According to Reggie, his wife called him at 11:00 p.m. She was in the car on her way home.'

  'Where was he when she called?' Kilcullen asked.

  'His boat on the marina. It was cell to cell.'

  'Verify his location with cell tower records. If we can prove that he took the call on his boat at eleven that would eliminate him as a suspect.'

  'Isn't he already eliminated?' Tony Dominguez said. 'Does anybody here actually think Reggie murdered his wife?'

  'Nobody thinks he did it,' Kilcullen said. 'But I was alone on the boat is not an alibi, and the DA will crucify us if we cut him loose based on the nice-guy- we-work-with defence. I need cell records to back up his story.'

  'Can we talk motive?' Charlie Knoll said. 'I knew this woman. I can't think of any reason why somebody would want to kill her. Does anyone think this might be a vendetta against Reggie?'

  Hands went up, including mine and Terry's.

  'We're working two paths,' Kilcullen said. 'We're digging into Jo Drabyak's life, and we're also looking at Reggie's cases.' He turned to Detective Burns. 'Wendy, your hand wasn't up. You don't think this is about Reggie?'

  'I wouldn't rule it out. You never know who might have it in for a cop,' Wendy said, 'but the killer brought a pair of scissors and cut off a piece of Jo's hair. To me, that says it's about her, and it's personal.'

  'A boyfriend?' Kilcullen said.

  Wendy smiled. 'Most men don't sneak up and shoot women in the back of the head. A pissed-off boyfriend would want to confront her face to face and say, "You see what you made me do, you bitch?'"

  'Which brings us back around to her business,' Kilcullen said. 'We can look into every event she ever planned, but I can't imagine killing somebody over a wedding reception gone wrong.'

  'What about that house renovating business she's involved in?' Wendy said.

  'What about it?' Tony Dominguez said.

  'We should look into it,' Wendy said. 'Construction breeds a lot more crime than party planning.'

  'Are you suggesting that the women in this real estate venture are into something crooked?' Tony said.

  'No,' Wendy said. 'I'm saying it's just another part of Jo Drabyak's life that we should be looking into.'

  'Thank you for clarifying, Detective,' Tony said, 'because my wife is part of that group, and whatever else you might say about her, she's not involved in anything shady.'

  'I didn't realise Jo was one of the Flippers,' Kilcullen said.

  'She was,' Tony said. 'Charlie's wife, mine, Terry's. Us guys, we play poker and lose money to each other. Our wives get together and make a nice little profit.'

  'Excuse me, but I am completely flummoxed,' Chris High said. 'Will somebody clue me in. What's a flipper?'

  'The LA Flippers,' Charlie said. 'It's a group of five—'

  'I know,' Chris said. 'They play basketball.'

  'That's the Clippers,' Charlie said. 'A bunch of our wives have a business together. They call themselves the LA Flippers. You know my mother-in-law, Nora Bannister?'

  High gave him a dubious look.

  'For God's sakes, Chris. Nora Bannister. She's the queen of the murder mystery writers.'

  'I didn't realise you Yanks had a queen,' High said. 'I thought that's why you left England in the first place - to get away from all that monarchy rot.'

  'Are you telling me you never heard of Nora Bannister?' Charlie said. 'She's like a cherished American writer.'

  'So she's more like Shakespeare than the Queen.'

  'You're yanking my chain, right?'

  High waggled his finger. 'Yes, Charles, I know who Nora Bannister is. I'm just not a big fan of the drivel she writes.'

  'To each his own, Detective High and Mighty,' Charlie said.

  'Anyway, five years ago, Nora helped set up my wife, Julia, and Tony's wife, Marisol, in a house-flipping business. They bought a run-down house in a good neighbourhood, hired a contractor, renovated the shit out of it, then flipped it for a profit.'

  'Hence, the name,' High said. 'The LA Flippers.'

  'But here's the twist,' Charlie said. 'While the construction was going on, Nora wrote a book about a murder that takes place in that house. You might think it's drivel, but the first week Murder at 2424 Horseshoe Canyon Road came out, it went straight to the bestseller list. That's when the Flippers put the house on the market.'

  'I'm guessing it sold rather quickly,' High said.

  'Quickly? There was a bidding frenzy over it. Five buyers wanted to live in the house that's on the cover. It

  sol
d for a shitload more than they'd hoped to get.'

  'Whatever your mother-in-law lacks in literary talent, she more than makes up for in business acumen,' High said. 'That is bloody brilliant.'

  'It's so brilliant that she decided to write a bunch of them. So now she has The House to Die For series. A new book and a new house to flip every year. This time around Nora opened it up to a few of her friends. Terry's wife, Marilyn, and Jo Drabyak are the two newest partners.'

  'Actually, Marilyn and Jo are more like investors with opinions,' Tony said. 'My wife does most of the day-to-day work.'

  'And she gets a salary,' Charlie said.

  'She earns it. Wendy makes it sound like our wives are involved in something crooked.'

  'That's not what I meant,' Wendy said. 'We all know that there are some real sketchy characters in the contracting business. They cut corners, they bribe inspectors, they hire illegal immigrants...'

  'They cash your cheque, don't show up to do the work, so I wind up moving in with my partner,' I said.

  'Here's my point,' Wendy said. 'Some accountant hits on Jo Drabyak, she tells him to buzz off, and he sends her flowers. What if the same thing happens on the construction site with some illegal whose wife is still in Mexico? Maybe he doesn't send roses. Maybe he follows her home and kills her.'

  'So now you're saying some horny Mexican killed her?' Tony smiled and shook his head. 'Hey, as long as you're projecting what the Mexicans would do, would you care to hear a point of view from a genuine Mexican'

  'Go ahead,' Kilcullen said.

  'Jo was in charge of publicity for the project,' he said. 'She didn't interact with the workers. Even if she had, she was a total sweetheart who got along with everyone. My wife, on the other hand, is a hot-blooded Latina with a short fuse. She's the line boss. She screams at the crew all day. She insults their mothers.'

  He smiled. We knew where this was headed.

  'What I'm saying is, if those workers took a poll on who to shoot, Marisol would win unanimously.'

  Nobody argued the point. We all knew Marisol well enough to realise he was right. We spent the next half hour tossing around theories. Since we all came from different disciplines, we all had different ideas of who might want to murder a cop's wife. Gangs. Organised crime. Rappers. I'm sure if we spitballed long enough, OJ would have come up as a suspect.

  By seven thirty Terry and I were back on the 101, inching our way toward the Valley.

  'Long day,' I said.

  'It's not over,' Terry said. 'We have to look into this house-flipping business. Which means when we get home, I'm gonna have to interrogate my wife.'

  Chapter Nine

  Marilyn and Diana were in the living room, a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table between them.

  I went over and kissed Diana. Marilyn got up and hugged Terry long and hard.

  'There's no dinner,' she said. Her eyes were red. 'I went to church, and now I'm having some wine. I'm pretty useless. Do you know who killed her?'

  'Not yet,' Terry said.

  'She was such a wonderful person,' Marilyn said. 'Why? That's all I've been saying all afternoon. Why?'

  It's a question Terry and I hear a lot in our line of work. We never have an answer. Usually we just say sorry for your loss and stand there quietly until the emotion subsides. But this was personal. Terry put his arms around her again and whispered something in her ear.

  'Hey, Dad. Hey, Mike.' It was Emily, Marilyn's and Terry's youngest daughter. Emily is sixteen, same red hair and green eyes as her mom, only on a smaller frame. Her older twin sisters had just started college. Sarah had decided to spend a year at LA City, so she was still living at home. But Rebecca was in St Louis at Washington U, which opened up a bedroom for me and Diana. As usual, Emily was being followed by Jett, the black lab my father gave her.

  'Hey, honey,' Terry said, not letting go of Marilyn.

  'I heard about Mrs Drabyak,' Emily said. 'I'm really, really sorry. But I know you and Mike are going to catch the person who did it.'

  'Did you finish your homework?' Marilyn said, uncoupling from her husband.

  'Yes and no,' Emily said.

  'Pick one,' her mother said.

  'Madame Bouchard is making us write three hundred words describing an important event in my life, so yes, I have the idea for my paper, but no, I haven't written it yet, because I suck at French. And since you and Dad do not parlez-vous frangais, I called Carolyn Bennett, and she said she'd help me out. Can I go over there?'

  'I know French,' Diana said.

  That was an understatement. Diana had lived in Paris for three years. So, yes, she knew French. But she didn't know the teenage mind. Emily flashed her a look that said, Hey, lady, you're screwing up my plans to get out of the house.

  Diana recovered quickly. 'Of course, it's mostly menu French. Escargot, quiche, French fries, stuff like that.

  And even then, I really don't know three hundred words.'

  'Too bad,' Emily said, giving her a smile of relief. 'So then, Mom, can I go over to Carolyn's house? I'll be back by ten.'

  'Nine thirty,' Marilyn said.

  'Nine forty-five.'

  'Nine fifteen,' Marilyn countered.

  'OK, OK, nine thirty,' Emily said. 'Merci beaucoup.'

  'What important event are you writing about?' Terry said.

  'The day Big Jim gave me Jett. Bye.' She turned and headed toward the front door.

  'Nine thirty,' Marilyn yelled after her. 'Not a minute later.'

  'Oui, Maman ' Door slam.

  'There's no dinner,' Marilyn said.

  'I believe you mentioned that.'

  'You want some wine?' She reached for the bottle on the table.

  'Why don't the four of us go out to Mr Cecil's for ribs?' Terry said, removing the bottle from her hand before she could pour. 'Give the wine a chance to wear off so Mike and I can ask you a few questions about Jo.'

  'I don't know what I can say to help, but, OK,' Marilyn said. 'Just promise me one thing. Promise me you'll catch the person who did this.'

  Terry has a voice that is magical. Soft and strong at the same time. It warms you, comforts you, reassures you. People always tell him he should be on the radio. His

  standard answer is, 'Well, I sure got the face for it.'

  He put his arms around Marilyn one more time. 'We'll catch him,' he said. 'I promise you, we'll catch him.' He said it with total conviction, without a hint of the fact that we were currently clueless.

  Chapter Ten

  'You ready to answer a few questions?' Terry said, after we sat down and ordered dinner.

  'Who's asking?' Marilyn said.

  'Me, Mike, does it matter?'

  She sat there, hands folded on the table. 'I'd be more comfortable being interrogated by somebody who's not my husband.'

  'Interrogated? Jesus, Marilyn, it's just a few simple...' He turned to me. 'Fine, you put her through the wringer. I'll just sit here and be Bad Cop.'

  'How about you just be Quiet Cop,' she said. 'Go ahead, Mike.'

  'How much time did Jo spend at the flip house you're renovating?'

  'Not much.'

  'Did she have anything to do with the contractors, any of the workers?'

  Marilyn shook her head. 'You think someone on the crew did it? No, they'd rather kill Marisol.'

  'You're the second person to say that,' I said.

  'Well, it's true. Marisol is on the crew's asses every day. She's a total bitch. Most of those macho construction guys hate her, but she gets the job done.'

  'So Marisol is there every day,' I said, 'and from what I understand, she gets paid extra.'

  'Right. Besides her partner share of the profits she gets a project management fee.'

  'And Jo doesn't work with the crew,' I said.

  'Jo and I are like the junior partners. This is our first house with them, so we're still kind of learning the ropes. We got to sit in on all the meetings with the architect, and we helped pick out the applia
nces and the fixtures. I worked with the landscaper, because I'm good at that, and Jo is coordinating the book launch party. It's supposed to be tomorrow night, but I spoke to Nora, and she's putting it off till after the funeral.'

  'What about Julia? What's her role in it?'

  'Julia shows up when she wants to, which is mostly never.'

  'Does that piss the other partners off?'

  'Just Nora. This whole thing started because Nora was looking for something for Julia to do with her life besides sit at home writing poetry. When she had the idea for The House to Die For series, she bought the first house and set Julia up to oversee the renovation. But Julia is a poet, a sensitive soul. If some idiot connects the water heater to the septic system, you're supposed to scream at the fucker to fix it, not agonise over the nicest way to tell him he made a mistake. So Nora went out and hired someone who can kick serious ass. Marisol.'

  'What about Jo? Is there anybody you can think of that's involved with the flip house that had a beef with her? Some guy who maybe had the hots for her, and she told him to screw off?'

  'No. Nothing like that. A lot of these guys are illegals. There's no way they're gonna make a move on some white woman whose husband is a cop.'

  'They knew her husband is a cop?' I said.

  'Everyone knows we're married to cops. We make a point of telling them. Plus we usually make it sound like you guys are trigger-happy psycho coppers like Dirty Harry.'

  Quiet Cop couldn't keep quiet any longer. 'What about the partners?' Terry said. 'Did they all get along with Jo?'

  'No, Terry. We all got together and decided to kill her. What kind of a stupid question is that?'

  'Hey,' he said, 'we're down to the stupid questions, because we asked all the smart ones, and we're still looking for a motive why anyone would want to kill this woman.'

  'Could we not talk about this anymore?' Marilyn said.

  'Fine with me,' Terry grumbled.

  'This is going to sound dumb,' Diana said, 'but as long as we're down to the stupid questions, can I ask one?'