Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  'Home. I went to sleep at ten. And just for the record, Detective Tony Dominguez can verify my alibi. I was in bed when he got back from the poker game.'

  She took another drag on the cigarette, then mashed the butt into an ashtray that was sitting on the mantel. 'Look boys, I know you got a homicide on your hands, but I'm wasting oxygen here. Anything else before I get back to work?'

  'Can we get a tour of the house?' Terry said.

  'I don't see why not. Especially since your old lady has a piece of the action.'

  'Yeah, she's one of those annoying five-percenters.'

  'Marilyn's not so bad,' Marisol said. 'At least she doesn't think she's a princess.'

  'Right,' Terry said. 'And I'd be willing to testify under oath that her shit definitely does not smell like strawberries.'

  Marisol cracked half a smile. 'You saw the cop car and the crime scene tape outside,' she said, her tone slipping from bitch to sales-pitch mode. 'Since the house is about to go on the market, it's been propped and decorated to reflect the murder house in Nora's latest book. When we actually show it, the prospective buyers will be guided around by actors wearing cop uniforms.'

  'And all that hoopla affects the price?' Terry said.

  'People eat it up,' she said. 'Our open houses are so popular that vendors set up on the street to sell food to the gawkers. The House to Die For open houses have edged out the LaBrea Tar Pits as the fourth most popular attraction in LA.'

  'How about the BMW in the driveway? Is that part of the draw?'

  'Hell, no. That's mine. I got it in April. You like it?'

  'This house-flipping business must be pretty good. I know you can't afford it on Tony's salary,' Terry said.

  She grinned. 'No way, Jose.'

  'Who's Joaquin?'

  The grin disappeared. 'My brother,' she said. 'He died. Tony and I don't want kids, so the car is my new baby. I gave it my brother's name. Come on, I'll show you where the previous owner of the house was murdered.'

  We entered the master bedroom. Just inside the door was an easel with a large card describing the room and its fictional history:

  This is the 20' x 30' airy master bedroom where the lifeless body of Stephen Driscoll was found sprawled on the plush Berber carpeting, the sun streaming down on the tragic scene from the three Velux electric venting skylights.

  Did the killer lie in wait in the spacious walk-in closet or sneak softly across the hand-stained cedar deck through the double-paned French sliding doors?

  Did he or she quickly wash away the evidence in one of the his-and-her dual Kohler sinks, or was there enough time to savour the deadly deed with a languishing soak in the fifteen-jet, multi-speed Jacuzzi tub?

  Is this fiction, or could Stephen Driscoll's nightmare become the home of your dreams?

  There was a chalk outline in the centre of the room. Stephen's last glass of wine and his open cell phone were lying on the floor. His stamp collection book sat on the desk, open to a full page of stamps, minus one from the centre. Several other clues were positioned around the room.

  'So who killed him?' I said.

  Marisol flashed a smile. 'You'll have to buy the book. Or buy the house, and we'll throw the book in for free.'

  'Do you know who killed Stephen Driscoll?' Terry said.

  'Damn straight I do.'

  'And do you know who killed Jo Drabyak?'

  'No. So get off my case. Tough shit that she's dead, but I didn't have anything to do with it. I may be a bitch, but I'm not a murderous bitch.'

  Chapter Fourteen

  We spent the rest of the day interviewing people connected to Jo, one of whom was so thrilled with her son's bar mitzvah party that she insisted on showing us pictures. We talked to a caterer, a photographer, and a DJ, all of whom worked with Jo and said they would miss her.

  'Personally and financially,' the DJ added. 'She got me some great gigs.'

  'In that case, we're twice as sorry for your loss,' Terry said.

  Chris High tracked down a second neighbour who backed up the dog walker's story. He was sure he had heard Jo pull into the garage at around eleven fifteen Sunday night.

  Almost everyone we interviewed asked the same question. Why would anyone want to kill her? It was a good question. Except that we were supposed to be asking it, and they were supposed to be coming up with answers.

  By five in the afternoon we were back in the office updating Kilcullen on our most recent lack of progress.

  'What about Reggie's arrests?' he said.

  'We ran through the most recent busts this morning. We have past arrests going back^ three years being pulled out of the archives. So far, nothing jumps out.'

  'Dig deeper,' Kilcullen said. 'It might not be obvious. It may be hiding under the surface.'

  'Meaning what?' Terry said.

  'OK, I'll give you a dumb scenario,' Kilcullen said. 'Totally hypothetical. Let's say Reggie busted a pimp. The guy wants to negotiate with Reggie, so what does he offer up as a bargaining chip?'

  'I don't know,' Terry said. 'How horny is Reggie during the negotiation period?'

  'Kiss my ass, Biggs,' Kilcullen said. 'I'm trying to teach you something. The pimp tells Reggie he can finger a cop who's taking bribes to look the other way when the hookers are working his beat. So now Reggie's got something on a crooked cop, and he's going to take it to IA.'

  'I doubt it,' Terry said. 'Reggie's too smart. He'd never just take some lowlife pimp's word for it.'

  'I told you it's hypothetical,' Kilcullen said. 'In this case, Reggie buys the pimp's story, but before he can report it, the rogue cop finds out, and he kills Reggie's wife.'

  'Why?'

  'Because that would effectively put Reggie out of commission.'

  'Why doesn't the cop just kill Reggie?' Terry said.

  'I said it was dumb, dammit. I'm just trying to get you guys to think outside of the box.'

  'Oh, right...the dumb scenario school of management,' Terry said. He was winding up to take one more poke at the boss, when Tony and Charlie walked into Kilcullen's office. In reality, Charlie walked. Tony barrelled in, steaming mad.

  'What the hell are you guys doing questioning my wife?'

  'What are you talking about?' Terry said. 'We questioned the whole group connected to the house flipping business. Charlie's wife, his mother-in-law...'

  'And Marilyn?' Tony said.

  'Yeah, I worked her over with a rubber hose. She confessed.'

  'Tony, relax,' Kilcullen said. 'They're just doing their—'

  Terry isn't the type to let the boss fight his battles. 'So we interviewed Marisol,' he said to Tony. 'It's not like we cuffed her and carted her off. It's called police work.'

  'Yeah, well the next time you got police work with my family, let me know ahead of time.'

  'Yeah, I'll send you a registered letter,' Terry said. He turned to Charlie. 'How about you? You got the same beef?'

  Charlie just shook his head. 'Hey, man, my buddy's wife was murdered...whatever it takes.'

  'Thanks,' Terry said. 'And now, if it's OK with Detective Dominguez, I'm gonna take a piss.'

  Tony shot him the finger.

  'All right, knock it off,' Kilcullen said. 'Get back to work.'

  'Yeah,' Terry said. 'And one more thing about your dumb scenario. I was wondering what cop would take a few hundred bucks from a pimp, and then cover up the crime by killing another cop's wife. I was thinking, how stupid can one cop be? But you're right. I gotta start thinking outside the box.'

  Terry stormed out and Kilcullen stood up. 'Dammit, Dominguez, the victim was in business with your wife. Of course she gets questioned.'

  'Marisol said he was a total wiseass,' Tony said.

  'It's part of his charm,' Kilcullen said. 'Get over it. And rein in that Latin temper. I got enough crap to deal with.'

  Tony threw both hands up and left the room. Charlie gave me a smile and followed.

  'And Lomax,' Kilcullen said. 'Get your partner to start acting civ
il, or you're both... Never mind. I don't care who you piss off. Just solve it.'

  Chapter Fifteen

  It probably would have been a good time to go home and let Terry cool down. But when I got back to my desk there was a message from the coroner's office. The autopsy was complete, and they had released Jo Drabyak's body. She was Jewish, and it's a tradition to bury the dead as soon as possible, so the funeral was scheduled for the next morning.

  'You realise we're not going to get much work done tomorrow,' I said. 'You want to order a pizza and put in a couple of hours tonight?'

  Terry, still seething from his head-to-head with Tony, grumbled something that sounded like yes. Two slices into a large pie, he was his old self again.

  As promised, Nora Bannister faxed us a list of people she thought might have wanted to hurt her by murdering Jo. They included two reviewers, half a dozen authors, a Hollywood producer, a fan who she informed us 'couldn't get close enough to kill me, because I have a restraining order against him,' and her former publisher, who Nora informed us was the only one on the list she wanted to kill herself.

  'It's hard to believe she writes murder mysteries,' Terry said. 'Three of the authors live in New York, the reviewers are from Boston and Atlanta, and except for the producer and the fan, nobody else lives in LA. Most of these people probably have the same alibi - sorry, officer, but my ass wasn't even in California when the murder occurred.'

  'She's not stupid,' I said. 'The note on the cover page says, "Don't be fooled by the geography. Just because they don't live here doesn't mean they couldn't have hired a hit man. And before you judge me, remember - even paranoids have enemies".'

  'Put it on the bottom of our Help-We-Can-Do-Without pile,' Terry said. 'Unless she signed it, in which case we can sell it on eBay.'

  We recruited Muller, our superstar computer tech, to stick around and help us wade through all of Reggie's vice arrests over the past three years.

  There were hundreds of files. The hookers and pimps were the usual bottom feeders you meet when you work vice, but the johns were a whole different socioeconomic demographic.

  'So far I've got a high school principal, a banker, and an ad exec,' Muller said.

  'I'll trade you,' Terry said. 'I'll give you a lawyer, a neurosurgeon, a left-handed pitcher, and a first-round draft choice to be named next spring.'

  I didn't join in the banter. I understood all too well why some guys wind up paying for sex. My wife, Joanie, was only thirty-five when she was diagnosed with cancer. She put up a brave fight and hung on for almost three years. As the clock ticked and the chemo dripped, our sex life became as terminal as she was.

  It was during one of those long dry spells that I met Coral C. Jones. Her brother Tyrell had been accused of robbing and killing a 7-Eleven clerk. At least, that's what it looked like on the surveillance video. But Coral C. swore he was innocent, and I agreed to take one more long hard look at the evidence. She was right. Two days later I arrested the real killer.

  Coral C. offered to pay me back with the oldest currency known to man. She was a hooker - big, brown, beautiful - and the very thought of losing myself in that exotic beauty for one night turned me on. But I turned her down. I didn't cheat. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, I was married.

  Two years later, when Joanie died, I called Coral C. and took her up on her offer. With one exception. I insisted on paying for the sex.

  I was drunk, but I don't blame the booze. I make no apologies, and I have no regrets. I just don't share it with anyone. Not even Terry, although he'd be the least judgmental of anyone I could ever tell.

  Joanie had left me a series of letters, along with instructions to read one each month after she died. The letters were painful, heartbreaking, and one night a month for the next six months I turned to Coral C. for release. It was strictly professional. And then I met Diana, and a life I never thought I could have again began to open up to me.

  Reggie Drabyak's cases had hundreds of names of men who got caught paying for sex, and the more prominent they were, the more Terry seemed to enjoy their fall from grace.

  'Look at this one, Mike,' he said. 'A minister.'

  I looked at the file and didn't say a word.

  Who am I to judge?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The funeral chapel was packed. The mayor and the chief of police sat in the front row between Reggie and Jo's parents. Behind them, friends, family, politicians, and cops. Lots of cops. Many with their wives.

  Barb Brown, Jo's lifelong friend, who had flown in from New Jersey, gave a moving fifteen-minute eulogy that painted a picture of Jo from the day they met in grade school to their very last e-mail exchange.

  Four other people spoke. Nora Bannister was not one of them, but her daughter, Julia, read a poem. Finally, Reggie. It was a sweet, awkward, poignant tribute. He closed by inviting everyone to the house after the funeral to eat, drink, and celebrate Jo's life. 'I apologise in advance for the food,' he said. 'It would be a much nicer buffet if Jo were around to plan it.'

  And then he introduced Helen Ryan, to sing 'Sail On, Little Girl, Sail On,' Reggie and Jo's favourite song.

  'She's blind,' Marilyn whispered. It was impossible to tell. The woman walked slowly but confidently to the podium, without the help of a cane, a dog, or an escort.

  Ryan was about forty, with short sandy blonde hair and a totally unassuming air. She was no more than five-foot- two, but she had a powerful, bluesy voice that reminded me of Joplin. She poured her soul into the song, wrenching new meaning from lyrics that were once full of promise for Reggie and Jo. If it had been a concert instead of a funeral, the crowd probably would have leapt to its feet and yelled for more.

  Killers often can't resist showing up for their victim's funeral, so despite the fact that we were there as friends, Terry and I were working. Nothing caught our radar at the chapel or the cemetery.

  When we got to the house, the emotional focus shifted from Jo to Reggie. A number of women swarmed around him, bringing him food and refilling his glass. One even stood behind him and massaged his neck. I stared at Reggie as long as I could, then I closed my eyes and let the memories of Joanie's funeral flood over me.

  I felt Terry's hand on my shoulder. 'This isn't easy for you, is it?' he said.

  'What?' I said, opening my eyes. 'A funeral for a cop's wife? It's easier than the last one I went to.'

  'Yeah, I remember what you looked like that day. Reggie doesn't look quite as devastated.'

  'He's better than I am at hiding his feelings,' I said.

  'Plus he's got all these touchy-feely women without wedding rings to help him get through his grief.'

  'Once a cop, always a cop, eh, Biggs? Look, he swore to us he wasn't involved with anyone,' I said. 'He even offered to take a poly.'

  'Right. Of course, we never did take him up on his offer.'

  The crowd at the buffet table had thinned out, so Terry and I stepped up to grab some food. The blind woman who sang at the funeral was standing there with an empty plate in her hand.

  'Need any help?' I asked.

  'You're either trying to pick me up, or somebody told you I was blind,' she said. 'Either way, you're out of luck. I'm married, and I'm not totally blind, just legally. It's called optic atrophy. My vision is degenerating, but I can still tell the difference between a tray of lasagne and a bowl of chicken salad.'

  'Is that chicken salad?' I said. 'I thought it was tuna.'

  'Trust me, it's chicken,' she said, tapping her nose. 'I'm Helen Ryan.'

  'Mike Lomax. And this is my partner, Terry Biggs.'

  'Nice to meet you,' she said. 'How long have you two been a couple?'

  'He's not that kind of a partner,' I said. 'We work together.'

  'Open mouth, insert foot,' she said. 'Sorry, what kind of work do you do?'

  'We're hairdressers,' Terry said.

  She giggled. 'He's funny.'

  'We're homicide detectives,' I said. '
I'm the one who's not funny.'

  'Are you investigating Jo's death?' she asked.

  'We are,' I said. 'How long did you know her?'

  'Just about a year. I live next door to the house Nora and the girls are renovating on Cherokee. They've done such a beautiful job. I keep telling them they're doing more to drive up my property values than my husband and I have done since we bought the place.'

  'Is your husband here?' I said.

  'He's at sea,' she said. 'He's a merchant marine. He left on Monday. He won't be back for a month.'

  We made small talk with Helen for another ten minutes. Then we stepped out into the backyard where people were still having lunch. Julia, Nora, and Marisol were sitting together at a table. My father, Big Jim Lomax, was towering over them, a beer in one hand. There were several available folding chairs, but Jim wisely didn't trust them to support a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound teamster.

  Nora waved, and we walked over. 'How's it going?' she asked.

  I knew what she meant by 'it,' but I avoided the issue. 'Reggie's eulogy was touching,' I said. 'And Julia, I know Jo would have loved your poem.'

  'I think it could still use some work,' Nora said, before Julia could respond. 'But at least she was better than that rent-a-rabbi. It was so obvious that he didn't know Jo.

  All that generic crap about the fragility of life and the mysterious ways of the Lord. Plus he kept looking down at his cheat sheet every time he said her name, and even then he still pronounced Drabyak wrong.'

  'Well, I really enjoyed Julia's poem,' I said.

  'Thanks,' Julia said. It was all she could get out before Nora grabbed the spotlight again.

  'My book launch party is tomorrow at seven. I expect to see you boys there. You were such a huge help when I was doing research.'

  'I'm looking forward to it,' I said, throwing in a plastic smile to go along with the phoney sentiment.

  'What time would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?' Big Jim said to Nora.

  I winced. Jim owns a transportation business. He has over fifty cars and trucks, which he rents to film crews. He also provides a limo service for studio executives, movie stars, and just about anybody who wants to be noticed when they arrive. And if you're lucky enough to get Jim as your personal driver, don't think of yourself as a passenger. You're more like a hostage. Jim's meddling gene kicks into high gear. Put that together with Nora in the back seat, and the thought of the two of them dissecting my case annoyed the crap out of me.