by Amore, Dani
It looked like she was going to say more, and then she stopped herself.
The next question was the tricky one, but Mary knew she had to ask.
“I know there were some unusual circumstances surrounding Mr. Locher’s death. Do you know of any peculiar habits he may or may not have had? Fetishes involving diapers or costumes, that kind of thing?”
The woman sighed. “No. Of course not. The police asked me the same thing and I told them the truth. He wasn’t into any of that. Trust me, I know.”
Mary decided to let the issue drop. “Do you think you could do me a favor and call me if you think of anything strange or unusual that happened recently? Something that took you by surprise?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I will, but I don’t think anything like that happened.” She paused again and then blurted out, “One time, in the car, we were driving and scanning the radio and there was a call-in show. It was a psychologist who was taking questions from the audience. Craig acted really weird, and I got the feeling that he knew the person – the doctor. But I can’t remember who it was.”
Outside in the hallway, a door opened and shut, a subdued voice began talking on a phone.
“Do you remember if the on-air psychologist was male or female?” Mary prodded.
Mulderink thought about it for a moment. “Male. Definitely a man.”
Mary was expecting that answer, but still glad that it wasn’t Dr. Blevins, her client. It meant Locher had sought treatment from someone new. Maybe because he had something else he wanted to talk about. Different issue, different therapist.
“What do you do for a living?” Mary said.
“I’m a product manager at a sports development center.”
She looked at Mary.
“I only agreed to talk to you because I haven’t heard anything from the police. Who hired you, by the way?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t divulge the name of my client,” Mary said. “But I can tell you that it is someone who knew Craig and cared about him, and who wants to make sure he gets justice.”
Jenni Mulderink nodded. “Everyone who knew Craig liked him,” she said. “He took the party with him, that’s for sure.” She smiled. “I’ll show you out now.”
“Okay,” Mary said. “But if you can think of anything, or remember the name of the doctor Craig was seeing, please, give me a call.”
Mary handed the woman her business card.
“I hope you find out who did it,” Mulderink said. “Craig was a good guy.”
She closed the door behind Mary, and Mary was pretty sure she heard the woman start to cry.
Eight
“I’ll have what she’s having, as long as it’s an ice cold beer,” Mary said, sliding onto the tall chair next to Alice. They were in the bar area of the Oasis Hotel in Santa Monica, a new, ultra-modern construction that featured only one attraction Mary cared for: a great view of the ocean.
Her aunt did not have a beer, instead, she had a chilled glass of chardonnay that caught the reflection from the water and cast a subtle glow to the older woman’s face.
“What are you on, number four or five?” Mary said. “Be careful, Jason might schedule an intervention for you.”
“That boy has had it,” Alice said. “We need to stage an intervention to stop him from staging interventions.”
The waiter brought Mary her beer, and she clinked glasses with Alice.
“Here’s to mud in your eyes and a stud between your thighs,” Mary said.
“Cute, Mary,” Alice said. “Real cute.”
“Okay, a cute stud.”
Alice sighed.
“So what are you working on these days?” Alice asked Mary. “Besides dealing with your old maid status?”
“Old maid? Who even uses that term anymore?”
“If the term fits…”
“I landed a new case,” Mary said. “The shrink who ran that intervention hired me to look into the death of one of her patients. Weird situation. The guy got stabbed to death. But he was wearing a diaper when he died.”
“What a way to go out,” Alice said. “Wearing your Depends. Had he shit himself?”
Mary’s beer tasted so good she drank half of it at once. She was going to remember this one.
“I didn’t ask if the diaper was empty or full,” Mary said.
“And you call yourself an investigator?” Alice asked. “How could you not pose that question? It’s the first thing I would ask.”
“For one thing, it wasn’t that kind of diaper,” Mary pointed out.
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t an old guy. It probably wasn’t a functional diaper.” Mary thought about it. “Okay, maybe it was, but he wasn’t wearing it because he was incontinent. It was most likely some kind of sex thing.”
“A sex thing where a grown man wears a diaper?” Alice asked. “Who the hell would enjoy that?”
“The diaper industry?” Mary said.
“This world just keeps getting sicker and sicker,” Alice said.
Mary thought about it. Had Craig Locher been an accidental death? A sex game gone wrong? Or had he been truly scared for his life and running down the street to get away from someone trying to kill him? The latter seemed to fit. Unless Locher had been drunk or on drugs and wandering around.
“It had to be drugs,” Alice said, seeming to read Mary’s mind. “The man was on drugs, got weird with his girlfriend, strapped on a diaper and died. Talk about a tragedy.”
“Hopefully it was an accident,” Mary said.
Alice looked at her. “When diapers are involved, accidents are bound to happen.”
Nine
The office of IdeaGen was classic Santa Monica – a standalone building with a sandblasted interior and poured concrete floors.
Mary had paid the tab for her beer and Alice’s wine, then driven over, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth to hide the smell of the beer.
It was important to be professional, after all.
Mary stood at the receptionist’s desk, which was a converted pool table that had kept its felt top.
“May I help you?” the woman said. She was a blonde with a southern accent and a pierced tongue. Mary had caught a glint in the woman’s mouth and it didn’t look like a silver filling in a back molar. Apparently IdeaGen was going for that more-edgy-than-corporate look.
“I have an appointment with Craig Locher,” Mary said with a bright tone in her voice. “I’m one of his clients. His favorite client, at least that’s what he tells me.”
The girl looked startled and Mary thought she heard the tongue piercing clacking against the girl’s teeth. A nervous tic, how quaint and unsanitary. Kinda creepy, actually.
“Um, Mr. Locher is no longer with the company,” the girl said. “In fact,” the girl’s eyes darted toward the hallway off the main reception area. “He passed away last week, unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary said, putting as much compassion into her voice as she could. “Is there someone who will be taking over his clients?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, let me see if Kelly is in.” The girl’s fingers tapped a small console and Mary saw a little yellow light flash on the girl’s Bluetooth earpiece. Mary also noted the girl’s fingernails – painted a teal with a border of glitter.
“What’s up Crystal?” a voice said from the hallway. Mary turned to see a tall, lean, rawboned woman with a shock of bright red hair and shoulders that looked like they could double as a boat hoist.
“I’m sorry, what was your name?” the receptionist asked Mary.
“Mary Cooper.”
“Kelly, this is Mary Cooper; she’s a client of Craig’s.”
“Oh.” The woman came forward and shook hands with Mary. “I’m Kelly Hargold,” she said. Mary felt her hand smothered by the woman’s giant paw. Now, face to face with the woman, Mary guessed her height to be at least six foot three or four.
“Maybe I can help y
ou,” she said. “Why don’t we go back to my office?”
The woman led Mary down a hallway where walls were filled with advertising awards, newspaper articles regarding the “innovative” company called IdeaGen, and a large cactus in a terra cotta pot.
The woman entered an office and Mary thought the woman might have to duck to avoid hitting her head on the door frame, but she made it through, barely.
Mary followed her into the office and saw a slim desk with a top made of a slick birch veneer. Two white plastic chairs sat on the other side of the desk and Mary guessed they had come from Ikea for forty bucks each, or some contemporary furniture store in L.A. for about four hundred bucks each.
There was a bookshelf behind the desk and on top sat several basketballs, each encased in a Lucite cube, all of them autographed.
The woman dropped into a Herman Miller desk chair, and Mary took one of the white plastic deals for herself. Definitely Ikea.
“So you’re a client?” Hargold asked. “What company?”
“I’m not actually a client, yet,” Mary said. “But I had talked to Craig on several occasions and was considering signing on with you guys.”
“What’s your company called?” the woman said. She had taken out a legal pad with a pen.
“Cooper Investigations,” Mary said.
The woman paused, put down the pen, glanced up at Mary.
“Investigations?”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you really a client, or are you something else?” the woman said.
“Well, I would like to have my own ad agency, but I don’t think I have the budget for you. However, I’ve been hired to look into Mr. Locher’s death, so I thought I would drop by, see what kind of minimum budget you require for a client, and maybe ask you a few questions.”
“A million.”
“Well, I don’t have a million, but I do have a lot of questions about what Mr. Locher did here.”
“Why should I answer your questions?”
“Because someone killed your business associate and you want to help, maybe?”
“I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “And I don’t know anything about you.”
The woman’s face was a giant slab of sheer stone. If Mary got into a fight with her and threw a punch, Mary would probably break her hand.
“All you need to know about me is that I’m working for someone who cared a great deal about Craig Locher and I’m going to try to help find out what happened to him. Plus, I’m a very quick questioner, you should know that, too.”
Hargold contemplated Mary for a moment.
“So,” Mary said, filling the silence. “What did Mr. Locher do here?”
The woman hesitated, eyed Mary warily, then sighed. “He was a rainmaker. He specialized in bringing clients in, and he was very good at it. Craig was smart, articulate, funny, and the life of the party. Clients loved him.”
“Was there anyone who didn’t love him?”
The woman shook her head. “No one here. I’m sure our competitors didn’t like him. After all, we’re growing fast. Tripled our billings in the past twelve months. Our new clients probably had other agencies doing their marketing before they hired us. One agency in particular lost three clients to us, all of them wooed by Craig. I’m sure some of those companies were none too pleased with us, or with Craig.”
“What was the name of that agency?”
“Argo & Partners,” she said. “But I’m sure they didn’t have anything to do with his death. They weren’t huge clients. And they’re still doing well themselves. Clients come and go. In fact they probably have one or two of our former clients.”
“What about office politics?” Mary said. “Seems no matter how likeable you are, there’s usually someone who doesn’t like you.”
The Hargold woman shook her head. “Not here. Everyone loved Craig, cared about him. In fact, most of us knew that our livelihoods were closely connected with Craig and his ability to bring in clients. There are some worried people here, wondering how well IdeaGen will continue without him.”
Before Mary could launch another question, the woman stood.
“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got time for.”
Mary slowly stood. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. If you ever take on clients with lower budgets, let me know, I might hire you,” Mary said. “I could use some new clients.”
The woman just smiled and Mary let herself out.
Ten
Mary was on her way to the office when her cell rang. It was Jenni Mulderink.
She had remembered the name of the psychologist who they’d heard on the radio that had caused the reaction from Craig Locher.
The name of the psychologist was Dr. Frank. As in, Dr. Frank Fallon. Mary had heard of him. That was part of his deal, a pun on the word ‘frank.’ As in, Dr. Frank will be blunt and tell you what he thinks.
Dr. Frank had a radio show, and had even done a brief television show, or had it been Internet-only? Mary couldn’t remember. In any case, she seemed to recall that the show had only lasted a few episodes. Maybe it turned out the doctor was better on the radio than in front of the camera.
Mary called a friend who knew everyone there was to know in celebrity Hollywood. The friend called back within minutes with Dr. Frank’s office number.
Mary called, and despite being told that the doctor would not talk about anything specifically regarding a former patient, Mary was able to set up a meeting for the next day.
She went back to her office, spent two hours filing paperwork, billing a client for services rendered, and reading the first of a batch of articles she’d downloaded about Dr. Frank.
There was a knock on the door and Jake came in.
“Hey,” he said, plopping into the chair across from Mary’s desk. She checked the clock. It was just past four o’clock. Close enough to five for her taste.
She went to the small fridge and retrieved two Point beers.
Jake held up a hand, “None for me, thanks,” he said. “My partner just dropped me off here while he does a return.” Mary’s office was next to a row of shops in Venice.
Mary cracked the first beer. “What makes you think one of these was for you?” she said. “You know I’m a two-fister.”
Jake nodded. “How goes the guy-in-the-diaper case?” he asked. He went to fridge and found a Diet Coke, cracked it.
“Nothing just yet. A successful, charismatic guy, who according to his girlfriend had no interest in wearing diapers,” Mary said.
“I’m still going with the kinky sex angle.”
“Of course you are,” Mary said. “It just seems weird that it would be going on in the middle of the street, though.”
“Maybe our victim broke out of his bondage costume, and made a break for it.”
Mary took a pull from her Point beer. She had it shipped all the way from Wisconsin.
“Could be,” she said. “A lot of people don’t tie up their submissives as thoroughly as I do you.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Want me to put another call into the detectives who are handling the case? See if they’ve got anything new to report?”
Mary nodded. “That would be great. What do I owe you?”
He got to his feet.
“Buy me a drink tonight?” he said.
“Working for alcohol,” Mary said, tipping back her bottle of Point. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Eleven
As Mary expected, Dr. Frank Fallon’s office was in Beverly Hills, in a section known as Couch Row. It was a quiet street filled with some of Hollywood’s most famous and most expensive psychologists. Rumor had it you could bump into at least one celebrity going through rehab issues any time you paid a visit to one of the offices. And, indeed, there were two limousines with tinted windows at each end of the block.
Fallon’s office was a square block of a building with just enough angles and slabs to qualify as a modernist’s architectural
statement.
Mary went inside, and rang the doorbell to the main office. After confirming her appointment, the door buzzed and she stepped into an austere yet somehow comfortable waiting room featuring a thick rug, leather armchairs, and abstract paintings.
She took a seat and waited approximately five minutes. There was no one else in the waiting room, and there were three light switches on the far wall, each with a little light above them. All three lights were bright red. Mary assumed the office had three doctors, and all of them were in session. She also figured there was a separate exit so patients didn’t have to parade through the waiting area, their faces covered with tears, hands shaking from emotional upheaval.
Five minutes after when her appointment should have started, Dr. Fallon’s red light went off and moments later, the door opened.
A tall, muscular man with close-cropped salt and pepper hair, dressed casually in khakis and a tight-fitting blue dress shirt that showed off his powerful upper body, smiled at Mary. His teeth were a dazzling white that made them look especially large, like a wolf’s.
“Ms. Cooper?”
Mary recognized him from his brief stint on television.
“Dr. Fallon?” she asked.
He nodded, then gestured toward an office at the end of the hall with an open door.
She walked past him and Mary knew he was following her. She did not like the feeling.
Once inside the office, Fallon closed the door behind them. Mary sat in a large leather club chair, still warm from the patient before her.
“How can I help you, Ms. Cooper?” he said.
He smiled, and Mary was struck again by the perfect white teeth, the expensive designer eyewear frames, the Panerai watch. Business was good for Dr. Frank.
“I wanted to ask you about a patient of yours. As you probably know, Craig Locher was murdered several days ago.”
A flash of irritation crossed the doctor’s face.
“So you’re not a patient. What are you, a reporter?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Mary said.