Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  Officer down.

  By 11:00 a.m. there were more windbags on Cherokee than you'd find at a party caucus in Iowa. Council people, assembly people, and a gaggle of wannabes who were gunning for their jobs in November showed up in droves. At the centre of it all was the mayor himself.

  He arrived, buoyed at first, because LAPD had caught and killed the guy who had murdered Nora Bannister and the two cop wives. He was probably thinking he'd bask in the limelight of the capture, then do a photo op at the hospital with the wounded hero cop.

  Unfortunately, his entourage had neglected to tell him that Marisol was dead too. Within minutes of his arrival he was taking heat from reporters, Hispanic activists, and political snipers of every persuasion, all of whom demanded to know why the police hadn't put poor Mrs Dominguez into protective custody.

  His Honour didn't have a good answer.

  So he told Deputy Mayor Mel Berger to get one. Our handsome mayor is the face of city hall, but Berger is the brains. Rail-thin and brutally ruthless, the man is all guile and no body fat. He's the mayor's liaison to the Jewish community and the Hollywood studios, and because he's fluent in Spanish, he knows how to reach out to the Latino voters.

  Right now he was reaching out hard to an Irish lieutenant by the name of Brendan Kilcullen. Berger is not the type to bitch to the chief of police and hope that his outrage and disappointment are communicated with the same intensity right on down the chain of command. Mel Berger doesn't trust middlemen. If he wants somebody's ass kicked, he makes sure it's his size 9 inside the wingtip.

  Terry and I were standing in the front yard, watching the interchange between the two men from fifty feet away. We couldn't hear a word, but the body language was clear. Berger's right index finger was wagging rapidly in the direction of Kilcullen's chest. Never touching, but causing our boss to lean back defensively.

  Finally, Kilcullen started walking in our direction.

  'Five dollars says he's not inviting us out for another afternoon of chat and chilli,' Terry said.

  'I'm in deep shit,' Kilcullen said, as soon as he got us alone.

  'Today hasn't exactly been a slice of heaven for Marisol Dominguez either,' Terry said.

  'The mayor is blaming me for Marisol,' Kilcullen said. 'Why didn't I protect her?'

  'You offered,' I said. 'She turned you down.'

  'No excuse.'

  'Of course it's an excuse,' Terry said. 'She's a private citizen. You heard what she said about putting some cop in front of her house not doing shit. Remember "Don't worry. I can take care of myself"?'

  'Well, obviously she couldn't.'

  'And that's LAPD's fault?' I said.

  'Not all of LAPD,' Kilcullen said. 'According to Berger, it's mine.'

  'And by extension, ours,' I said.

  'Don't flatter yourselves,' he said. 'If city hall decides to look for a scapegoat, it's my head that'll roll. I'm the one who authorised protection for Biggs's wife, but I didn't take care of Mrs Dominguez. According to Deputy Mayor Berger, I should have been smarter.'

  'There's not going to be a scapegoat,' I said. 'Marisol made her own choice. Besides, Sorensen was her business partner. He had access. If he was hell-bent on killing her, ten teams of cops couldn't have protected her.'

  'Debatable point,' Kilcullen grunted. 'Were you on to this guy Sorensen?'

  'He was starting to look good,' I said. 'We were going to pay him a visit and push him a little more this morning, but then we got the call from Wendy to come here.'

  'Did you figure out his motive?'

  'Money, fame, glory,' Terry said. 'Basically, he helped run Nora Bannister's empire, and he wanted it for his own.'

  'Why did he kill all those other women? I thought they were just small players.'

  'They were,' I said. 'We assume he killed Julia Knoll because she was Nora's daughter. As for the others, we don't know what was going on in Sorensen's head. We need some time to pull it all together. We'll start by searching his apartment.'

  'Start now,' Kilcullen said. 'According to Berger, the mayor wants a full written report.'

  'By when?'

  'The usual deadline. Day before yesterday.'

  'If we'd have had the answer then,' Terry said, 'Marisol wouldn't be dead.'

  'Right,' Kilcullen said. 'And my ass wouldn't be in a sling.'

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jessica helped confirm what we had started to piece together.

  'I did a GSR test on both bodies,' she said. 'Marisol was clean. Sorensen had gunshot residue on his right hand. The .22 we found next to his body appears to be the murder weapon. Even if the bullet is too obliterated to give us useable ballistics, you'll still have Detective Dominguez's testimony. That ought to clinch it.'

  We knew the who, what, when, and where. Our job now was to figure out the why.

  'We should have been smarter,' Terry said, as we headed for Martin Sorensen's apartment. 'And faster. If we had driven out to see Sorensen early this morning instead of wasting our time on breakfast, we might have tripped him up before he went over to the flip house and shot Marisol.'

  'So it's our fault,' I said. 'You think because we sat down to a family breakfast, Marisol wound up dead.'

  He hit the back of his palm on the steering wheel. 'And why did we have breakfast this morning? Because Marilyn was using food to compensate for Emily's dumb stunt the night before.'

  'So it's Emily's fault that Marisol is dead,' I said.

  'In a convoluted, indirect way, yes.'

  'How old was Emily when you married Marilyn?'

  'The twins were seven. Emily was five.'

  'But if you hadn't married Marilyn, she wouldn't have needed police protection, and Emily wouldn't be your daughter, and you wouldn't have wasted the morning eating figgy scones,' I said.

  'So it's my fault that Marisol is dead,' he said.

  'In a convoluted, indirect way, yes. Of course, since I'm your partner, it's half my fault.'

  'Thank you for clearing that up. I feel better already.'

  I knew he still felt like crap, but I've learnt that when something is gnawing at Terry, he needs the time to let it chew. We didn't talk until we arrived at Martin's apartment.

  We informed the building super that his tenant in 3-B was deceased. He extended his condolences as if we were the next of kin, then let us in the apartment without even looking at the warrant.

  We searched the place. There were eggshells and warm coffee grounds in the garbage can, which indicated Martin had eaten a hearty breakfast before heading out to kill Marisol. But there were no dirty dishes in sight, and the coffee pot had been washed, dried, and put away. Even the bed was neatly made.

  'Neat as a pin,' I said. 'Not exactly your basic bachelor apartment.'

  Terry shrugged, it is if the bachelor is an anal-retentive mass murderer.'

  Martin's appointment book was on top of his desk. These days, a lot of searches turn up a Blackberry, a Treo, or a Palm Pilot, which means that Terry and I have to take it in for a techie to help us crack. Martin was one of those people who still used one of those old-fashioned week-at-a- glance paper calendars.

  'Good news,' Terry said. 'We won't be needing a decoder ring.'

  The book was bound in black vinyl, and a quick thumb through it showed that Martin Sorensen had a busy schedule. I flipped ahead to a few weeks from now.

  'According to his calendar, he expected Nora to be around for a while,' I said.

  'Of course he would write that in,' Terry said. 'The guy took all those criminology courses. He's not stupid. But just for the heck of it, check out today's entry. See if it says, Go to 611 South Cherokee, kill Marisol.'

  There were no entries for Saturday or Sunday. But Monday morning got my attention. It said Call Mike Lomax and had my office number written below it.

  'I wonder what he was going to call about,' I said.

  'I have no idea,' Terry said. 'But I'll go out on a limb and take a guess that it wasn't fashion advice.'


  We spent another two hours going over the apartment. It was basically benign. Most murderers aren't like the madmen portrayed by Hollywood, who cover their walls with newspaper clippings of their kills. Real murderers are not that blatantly obvious, so not finding anything incriminating came as no surprise.

  We were just about ready to take Sorensen's computer and bring it back to Muller when my cell rang. It was Jessica Keating.

  'We just went over Sorensen's car,' she said. 'It was parked outside the house and the keys were in his pocket.'

  'Did you find anything?'

  'A gun case, complete with a box of .22 shells and some gun-cleaning equipment.'

  'I'm glad,' I said. 'Because there's no gun paraphernalia in the apartment. We figured he had to keep it hidden somewhere.'

  'He had it tucked away in the wheel well under the jack,' she said. 'You want to know what else we found inside the case?'

  'The way you're asking, I think I definitely do.'

  'Three plastic baggies, each with a lock of hair,' Jessica said. 'I haven't done a DNA on them, but under a microscope they would appear to belong to Jo Drabyak, Julia Knoll, and Nora Bannister.'

  'Good job,' I said. 'Did you find anything else?'

  'What more could you ask for?'

  'Well, in a perfect world,' I said, 'it would really help if he left us a written report explaining why he killed all those women. Preferably neatly typed - something that Terry and I could drop off at the mayor's office.'

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  'I guess the siege is officially over,' Terry said as we pulled into his driveway at 7:00 p.m. 'No more cute cops in squad cars parked outside the house. Sarah will be devastated.'

  'Emily, on the other hand, will be thrilled,' I said.

  'Let's not tell her till she's thirty. It couldn't hurt to keep her locked up for a while longer.'

  The house was quiet. Diana was working late at the hospital. Marilyn was lying on the sofa reading a book. Jett was curled up next to her head. Neither of them looked up.

  'Where are the girls?' Terry said.

  'Out enjoying their newfound freedom,' Marilyn said. 'I didn't even know Emily knew the word emancipation, but she used it a dozen times this afternoon. I called Rebecca at school and told her it was over.' She hesitated, it is over, isn't it?'

  'Everything but the paperwork,' Terry said.

  Marilyn sat up on the sofa. Jett perked up. Marilyn on the move usually meant food. The dog was poised for a trip to the kitchen.

  'Sit. Stay,' Marilyn said.

  'You talking to me?' Terry said.

  Marilyn ignored him. 'I still can't believe Martin would murder someone,' she said. 'Especially Nora. She loved him. She took such good care of him.'

  'Apparently not good enough. You ever get a hint that he was angry enough to kill her?'

  'Kill her? No. But I knew he had a beef. When I first joined the LA Flippers, I was over at Nora's house. She was on a conference call, so I just hung around and talked to Martin. Sort of a getting-to-know-you conversation.'

  'And what did you get to know?' Terry asked.

  'According to Martin, the House to Die For series was all his idea. Nora loved it, and immediately decided that Julia should be a partner. Of course, Julia was totally inept, so Nora brought Marisol in. Eventually, she added me and Jo, but Martin never got his piece of the pie. As far as Nora was concerned, pitching ideas was part of his job.'

  'So Martin came up with this gold mine of an idea, Nora took on four partners, and he got nothing?' I said.

  'Not nothing,' Marilyn said. 'But not much. I think she gave him a Christmas bonus. A trip to Hawaii.'

  'And she tagged along,' Terry said.

  'Of course,' Marilyn said. 'She wasn't going to let him go off by himself. They were...you know.'

  'So he has the big idea. She cuts other people in on the action, and all Martin gets is a ticket to bang Nora on Waikiki Beach. Talk about a motive,' Terry said. 'No wonder he killed the others along with Nora. He must have hated everyone in the group.'

  'Thank you for reminding me, Terry,' Marilyn said. 'Because I haven't thought about the fact that I was next for at least two minutes.'

  'Sorry.' He sat down next to her. 'What are you reading?'

  'Murder at 611 South Cherokee.' She closed it, so we could see the cover. 'I read the advance copy six months ago, but this has the acknowledgment page. She mentions me and all the other partners, and she thanks you, Mike, Charlie, and Wendy Burns for helping her get all the cop stuff right.'

  'Well, we got the cop stuff wrong this time,' Terry said. 'We suspected Martin, but we didn't go after him fast enough.'

  Marilyn put a hand on his knee. 'Are you upset that Tony will get all the credit for solving the case?'

  'No. I'm upset that we didn't solve it before Tony's wife got killed.'

  Jett sat up and barked. Marilyn jumped.

  The front door opened, it's only us,' Emily yelled.

  She and Sarah came into the living room. They each gave Terry a quick kiss. 'How you doing, Mom?' Emily said.

  'I'm in shock,' Marilyn said. 'What are you doing home so early?'

  'The mall is boring.'

  'And the guy she has the hots for was hanging with another girl,' Sarah said.

  'I do not have the hots for him,' Emily yelled.

  'For the record,' Terry said, 'you're too young to have the hots for anyone.'

  'This is embarrassing,' Emily said. 'I'm going to my room.'

  'I don't get it,' Marilyn said. 'Last night you called out half the cops in LA because you were tired of being stuck in the house. Now that you're free to go, you're not going anywhere.'

  'It's my call,' Emily said, tossing one hand in the air. 'And that, Mother, is the beauty of emancipation.'

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The next morning we were on the 101 headed for Cedars- Sinai to talk to Tony Dominguez. Terry was in a pissy mood.

  'You haven't said a word since we left the house,' I said. 'What's your problem?'

  'I was just wondering if we can find a Hallmark store open on a Sunday morning,' he said. 'I'd like to get Tony one of those Sorry If My Lousy Police Work Caused the Death of Your Wife cards.'

  'It's probably in the section next to the Your Wife Should Have Taken Us Up on Our Offer of Police Protection cards. Lighten up on yourself. Marisol called her own shots. What's done is done. Let's just talk to Tony and wrap this up. You OK with that?'

  'I'm fine,' he said, sounding anything but.

  'As long as we're at Cedars,' I said, 'we should stop in and talk to Charlie and get his take on Martin Sorensen.'

  'How about your contractor with the nail in his dick? Isn't he in the hospital too? Why don't we pop by Good Samaritan and spread some cheer his way? We can make a day of it.'

  'My contractor,' I said. 'We've been so crazy, I forgot all about it.' I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  'What's that?'

  'Liz Corrado, our lawyer, has been talking with Hal Hooper,' I said. 'He flat out refuses to give us back the advance we gave him.'

  'On what grounds?'

  'On the grounds that he's an asshole. He said his injuries won't slow him down that much.'

  'I thought his leg was broken and he couldn't work for eight weeks.'

  'Yeah, well, he changed his tune when we asked for a refund. He said he would pick up where he left off in a few days.'

  'By pick up where he left off, does he mean keep the money and not show up?' Terry said.

  'Right, and by a few days, he means when hell freezes over. So, Liz is threatening to sue. She sent me a draft of a letter she's working on.'

  'I got a good opening for you,' Terry said. 'How about, "Dear Dickwad, we don't mean to be hard on you, but we really need to nail this down."'

  'Hard on. Nail down,' I said. 'Liz is a little more artful.'

  'I'll be the judge of that. Read on.'

  I unfolded the piece of paper.
'Dear Mr Hooper. My client's roof was supposed to be finished two weeks ago, but with your recent unfortunate injury, it is apparent that it will be a long time before you can get it up.'

  Terry laughed out loud.

  'Unless you return my client's advance payment of seven thousand dollars within forty-eight hours of receipt of this letter, we will proceed with litigation.'

  'That's not a believable threat,' Terry said. 'These contractors get sued eight days a week. Lawsuits don't scare them, because it would cost you more in legal expenses than you can win in court. He knows you'll never go through with it.'

  I smiled. 'Don't bet on it. Listen to this. "My client is determined to see this through, no matter what the legal costs. We intend to subpoena your medical records, and while a jury may be sympathetic to a man who mistook his genitalia for a roofing shingle, you are at risk of your little private matter becoming public fodder for the media.'"

  Terry slammed his palm on the steering wheel. 'Little private matter. If I weren't doing eighty, I'd get up and give Liz Corrado a standing ovation. That's the kind of twisted thinking that restores my faith in our legal system. Kudos on finding a lawyer who uses her powers for good instead of evil.'

  He had a smile on his face all the way into Cedars.

  We parked at the South Tower and took an elevator to the seventh floor. When Charlie Knoll checked into the hospital with chest pains, they put him in a double room. But when hero cop Tony Dominguez took a bullet protecting the citizens of our fair city, he was gratefully bedded down in a private suite usually reserved for the rich and celebrated.

  The mahogany-panelled hallway leading to Tony's room looked more like a European hotel than a hospital. We knocked on Tony's door.

  'Come in.'

  It was one of those rooms that most patients will never see, or even dream of. More wood-panelled walls, antique furniture, and a muted Persian rug that definitely had not come from Carpet City. The Old World feel was offset by twenty-first-century amenities like a high def plasma TV and a home theatre system. Tony was sitting in a leather armchair, wearing a dark blue silky robe. His left arm was in a sling.