Total Sarcasm (Mary Cooper Mysteries #1, #2, #3)

by Amore, Dani

Then she slammed the door shut.

  Eighteen

  Mary left the bitch and the bastard, which sounded like the title of a Jane Austen novel, to their own devices and headed back toward Brentwood.

  Mary was impressed with “her” Valerie Barnes. The murdered woman had carved out a very nice life for herself, assuming she owned the house Mary had seen earlier.

  Thinking of her own finances, Mary felt somewhat embarrassed by the success of the younger woman. Oh, she wasn’t a complete fiscal flop, she had an investment portfolio, had built up equity in her office (she owned the building) and her condo was almost paid off. Although she sucked at math, Mary had forced herself to learn the basics of being a small business owner, the tax shelters available, and tried to make sound business decisions.

  But she wouldn’t be buying a monstrosity in Brentwood, or Bel Air, or Beverly Hills or Malibu any time soon. But who really cared? She loved her place in Santa Monica. Loved the restaurant and grocery store in Venice, and loved being close to Alice, who was often a pain in the ass but at least provided some entertainment value.

  Mary had found that being close with an elderly person was kind of like having access to a free comedy pay-per-view channel.

  She turned off of Wilshire which had suddenly become clogged, and gunned the Accord down side streets, loving the power of the engine, the tight handling with the sporty suspension.

  Mary had always had a bit of a lead foot, and now that she was driving this car full-time, she had decided that she would never go back to a “normal” car.

  It took her less than twenty minutes to get back to Brentwood and a lot had changed since she’d been there just a few hours back.

  Now, a shiny BMW 7-series sat in the driveway, and the gate was open.

  Mary decided to be bold.

  She drove right through the gate, up the circular driveway, and parked behind the Beemer.

  No sense being shy, she thought.

  Mary went up and rang the bell. There was a security camera flush-mounted above her.

  The door opened and a man stood before Mary.

  She instantly saw the resemblance to the dead woman she’d seen less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The man looked at her. He was incredibly handsome, but his face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a man named Craig Locher, and I believe it may have something to do with what happened to your sister.”

  Mary had guessed at the connection, but it sure looked right to her.

  The man hesitated, then surprised Mary by opening the door wider.

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  Nineteen

  The home’s foyer was as impressive as the outside. A huge vaulted ceiling, a bench off to the right, and a marble floor.

  The man walked through the foyer, down a short hallway then turned left into the kitchen.

  It was five times larger, at least, than Mary’s. With white cabinets, marble countertops, and professional grade appliances.

  “I’m Trey,” the man said. “Valerie’s brother, as you guessed. Do you want something to drink?”

  He had a bottle of Perrier on the counter and a stack of paper.

  “No thank you. I’m very sorry about your sister,” Mary said. She was surprised by the invite in, and the apparent relaxed state of Trey Barnes. Was he this way with everyone?

  “You’re a private investigator?” Trey asked, ignoring Mary’s sympathy.

  “Yes, I’m looking into the murder of a man and it could be that your sister’s murder is related.”

  “What, like a serial killer?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said.

  For a moment, Trey Barnes seemed to remember that his sister was now dead. Mary thought he might start crying, but he regained his composure.

  “She was an awesome girl,” he said. “The pride of the family.”

  “Are your parents…”

  “They’re dead. Cancer got my Mom five years ago, a heart attack got my Dad six months after that. It was just me and Valerie. Now just me.”

  He looked around the cavernous kitchen, for a moment seemed to be lost in confusion. He looked at Mary, seemed to be surprised to see her.

  “So who are you working for?”

  Mary hesitated. She ordinarily never divulged her employer, but in this case it seemed appropriate.

  “A psychologist who was treating the victim.”

  Trey Barnes nodded.

  “Do the police have any leads on your sister’s case?” Mary asked as gently as possible.

  Barnes sighed and looked around, as if seeing the house for the first time.

  “I don’t think I can do this right now,” he said. “Do you have a card or something?”

  “Yes, I do,” Mary said.

  “I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got a lot to do,” Barnes said, gesturing at the pile of papers in front of him. “You can call me if you have any questions. And maybe we can talk more later, but right now, I don’t know. It just comes in waves. A minute ago I was fine, now I’m not, and then a minute from now I’ll feel better.”

  Mary pulled out two cards, gave them to Trey and asked him to write his phone number on one. He did so and gave her that card back.

  He saw her to the door.

  Mary turned to him and said, “I’m sorry again for your loss.”

  Barnes nodded.

  “She was an amazing woman,” he said. “Now it’s just me.”

  Mary didn’t know what to say.

  Trey Barnes shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and shut the door.

  Mary wished she could have said something profound. But being profound wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

  Twenty

  Mary swung by Alice’s house after her meeting with Trey Barnes.

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Alice was on her hands and knees with her yoga instructor/boyfriend Sanji kneeling behind her, holding the older woman’s hips and chanting.

  “Open up, Alice, open up,” he was saying in a sing song voice, followed by a phrase in Hindu.

  “Please don’t,” Mary said as she passed the couple and headed straight for Alice’s kitchen.

  “I’m wide open for you, Sanji!” Alice called out.

  “Good Christ,” Mary said, found a bottle of Heineken and an opener. She popped the top, hoped her Aunt hadn’t done the same out in the living room, and took a drink. The ice cold beer was a welcome taste. Mary took her beer back into the living room, plopped into a chair and watched the yoga spectacle literally unfolding in front of her.

  “Hey, this isn’t a football game,” Alice said. “I’m going to have to start selling tickets.” She was a short, solid woman with a head of finely cropped gray hair. Her eyes were hazel and she had the fine features all Cooper women had. Now, she was still on her knees, with her ass pointed backward.

  “Sanji’s at the 50 yard line,” Mary pointed out.

  “And he’s about to score,” Alice said. She started giggling.

  “Ladies, we must focus on the yoga,” he said. He was a slim man, at least ten years Alice’s junior, with fine, delicate features. He kind of looked like a perfectly grilled chicken wing, Mary thought.

  “I think I’m done for today, Sanj,” Alice said. She slowly got to her feet.

  Mary took a drink of her beer and checked her cell phone. There was a text from Jake to call him.

  “I will see you tonight?” Sanji said.

  “You sure will, sexy,” Alice said. “Make sure you bring that oil. And that pair of ‘Slippery When Wet’ underwear I know you’ve got.” Alice glanced over at Mary and winked.

  Sanji let himself out and Alice went to the fridge, got herself a Diet Coke, and sat back in the living room with Mary.

  “So what’s going on with you?” Alice said.

  �
�Still working that case I told you about, the guy in the diaper. It’s now become the guy in the diaper and the girl who was dressed up like a doll and then killed.”

  “It’s a sick world,” Alice said, sipping from her Coke. “So these two cases then, if they’re related, what do you think is going on? Some serial killer who likes dressing his victims up like babies?”

  Mary shrugged her shoulders. “They’re definitely related, but I don’t know what the motive is or who would even want to kill these two people. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Alice shook her head. “You really need to give up this whole private investigator dream,” Alice said. “I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

  “I’ve been doing it for ten years.”

  “Just because you’ve been doing something for a long time, doesn’t mean you’re right for it. Just look at your Uncle Kurt and standup comedy. The man was born for a career in industrial janitorial services.”

  Mercifully, Mary’s phone rang and it was Jake.

  “Didn’t you get my text?” he said.

  “I did. But I knew you would call, too.”

  “Well, get ready. I’ve got some big news for you.”

  Twenty-One

  “I’ve found you a shrink,” Jake said. “I should have done this a long time ago.”

  “Did you find one who specializes in boyfriend problems? As in, their boyfriend is a donkey?”

  “Very funny, Mary. It’s for your case. Her name is Nancy Pregler and she’s a consultant to the LAPD. She knows all there is to know about psychology and crime. We use her all the time and she’s smart as a whip. A good therapist, too, from what I hear. Maybe she can help you.” He paused. “And you really need some help.”

  Mary rolled her eyes as she heard Jake laughing at his own mirth-making. It was so cute. She couldn’t wait to bat him about the ears.

  “Thank you, Jake,” Mary said. “You’re so good for my mental health.”

  “She can meet with you today at three if you’re available, otherwise it’s a long wait.”

  “I can do three,” Mary said.

  Jake gave her an address in Beverly Hills.

  “Your LAPD shrink works in Beverly Hills?”

  “She must have given us a discount.”

  Mary hung up, then tried another phone call to Dr. Frank Fallon’s office but they weren’t answering. In fact, they had stopped the answering service. The phone just rang and rang and rang.

  Mary hung up, checked the clock, and saw she had just enough time to get to Beverly Hills to see her shrink.

  Gosh, she’d always wanted to say that.

  Twenty-Two

  The address belonged to a carriage house that had been broken off into its own address. The grounds had been cultivated carefully, including a wrought-iron fence, to make sure the structure was completely separate from the monstrous house next door that had been its original counterpart.

  There was a gravel drive to the right of the small house with two parking spots. The first was occupied by a long, sleek Mercedes-Benz.

  The second spot quickly became occupied by Mary’s Accord.

  There was an intercom, so Mary pushed the small white button and the door quickly buzzed.

  She opened the door and stepped into the waiting room. There was a seating area with a long, black coffee table surrounded by chairs covered in not-so-subtle teal cloth upholstery. There were framed flower prints on the wall.

  A hallway ran through the center of the building, with a kitchen off the first doorway, just visible from the reception area.

  “You must be Mary Cooper,” a voice said from above. There was a stairway off to the right and Mary saw a woman at the top of the landing, looking down.

  “And you are Dr. Pregler?” Mary said.

  “I am, please come up.”

  Knowing that psychologists loved to have two entrances and exits, so that departing patients didn’t have to come face to face with arriving patients, Mary figured there was another door on the other end of the hallway upstairs that led outside.

  But seeing as how there was only one car in the lot, Dr. Pregler must have been between patients.

  The Doctor was a woman Mary guessed to be near fifty years old, with hunched shoulders, broad hips, and a face that somewhat resembled a Pug. Large eyes and loose jowls. But the eyes were big and blue and bright. A fierce intelligence radiated outward.

  “So Detective Cornell said you needed someone to talk to,” the woman said as she gestured toward a leather club chair. Mary sat, and the Doctor sat in a chair opposite her. The woman’s office was wide and spacious, with framed certificates on the walls and a desk off to the side with a laptop computer.

  The room smelled vaguely of fresh flowers.

  “Yes, I need to ask you about infantilizing, I believe it’s called.”

  “Okay. What would you like to know?”

  “Well, it’s a fetish, right?”

  “It can be. It’s called autonepiophilia. Or, the more general term is adult baby syndrome.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m wondering about.”

  “Not to be confused with urolagnia.”

  “Euro-what?”

  “Urolagnia is also known as watersports. Fascination with urine, etc.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s that. This involves a grown man wearing a diaper, a woman dressed up like a child.”

  “Yes, that would be infantilism.”

  “So what’s the deal with it? Why do people enjoy it?”

  “I am by no means an expert but in the majority of cases it is a role playing issue. Nothing more, nothing less. As I understand it, sometimes it involves masochism, but not always.”

  “Spanking? That sort of thing?”

  “Yes. Like any type of sexual fetish, it can be taken to any degree imaginable.”

  “Women and men?”

  Dr. Pregler nodded. “Women and men, definitely, in both roles. Not children, though. Infantilism is not related to pedophilia.”

  “I see. So, is it possible for this kind of role-playing to get out of hand? As in, leading to murder?”

  “Of course. As I said, any type of sexual role playing can be taken to an extreme.”

  Mary thought about it.

  “Okay, so let me ask you about psychology as a profession. How does it work? Do you monitor each other? Or just wait until things reach a court of law?”

  “Physician, heal thyself, kind of thing?” the woman said. She had taken off her glasses and now chewed one end of the stem. Mary had heard that was a good way to get an ear infection.

  “Sort of.”

  “Your best bet would be the Psychiatric Review Board, which manages and oversees all claims of abuse,” Dr. Pregler said. “If you’re looking for information before it reaches court, that would be the place to begin. However, some of the information is public, but much of it is not. The service is free and patients can walk in and demand to see any complaints that have been lodged against a certain doctor.”

  The woman scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and handed it to Mary.

  “Here’s their address.”

  Mary tucked it inside her purse.

  “Can you give me any kind of idea how often there is trouble between a patient and his or her therapist?”

  The woman nodded. “Much less often than you would think. In thirty years practicing psychology I’ve had less than half a dozen issues with patients. And I expect I’m fairly normal compared to my colleagues.”

  “I see,” Mary responded.

  “Now Detective Cornell said you had some relationship issues you wanted to talk to me about.”

  Mary flushed slightly.

  That jackass.

  “No, no issues with me. Just the case,” Mary said. “Jake, however, definitely needs his head examined.”

  Twenty-Three

  The Psychological Association of Los Angeles was located in a single-story, fifties-style office building
that sat on the corner of a quiet street in Reseda. Mary parked the Accord and went inside.

  There was an unattended counter with a computer monitor and a chair. The monitor was turned off. The calendar was a month behind.

  “Hello?” Mary said.

  She heard a shuffling of papers and then a woman appeared. She was old but dyed her hair a cross between black and dark, dark red. She had on a black sweater over a red blouse, gray slacks, and shoes with thick black straps.

  “How may I help you?” she said.

  “I’d like to look into any information you have on Dr. Frank Fallon,” Mary said.

  “Okay,” the woman said. She went to a computer, tapped the keys for a bit, and then looked up at Mary.

  “We have different categories of information. Professional accomplishments, education, services offered…”

  “I’m looking for any illegal activity,” Mary said. “Crimes, lawsuits, criminal activity. Anything like that.”

  “I see,” the woman said. “The only information we can provide are documents that have already been made public. We use a software program that’s searchable by the physician’s name. There may be criminal information, but that would be stored separately. I can only give you what I find through the search. Anything else, you would need a court order.”

  The woman tapped the keys some more.

  “I’ve got about twenty pages of documents,” she said. “We charge ten cents a page.”

  “Let her rip,” Mary said.

  Twenty-Four

  Mary grabbed a coffee to go from the Peet’s just down the street from her building, then went to her office, put her feet up on her desk, and set the papers on her lap.

  She sipped the dark, strong brew until it was nearly half gone, then set it on her desk.

  Mary picked up the papers and started reading, occasionally taking a coffee break before diving back into the documents.

  By the time she was done, she learned that there had been only one real stretch of trouble for Dr. Frank Fallon.

  A woman named Robin Dipple had filed a formal assault charge against Fallon. The charge had been resolved out of court, but news of the woman’s original complaint was still on file.