by M. Z. Kelly
“We had an agreement,” Salvatore fumed. “You broke it.”
Lieutenant Edna leaned forward. His voice rattled with anger. “Detective Sexton did nothing of the kind. The decision to withhold certain information was mine alone, not hers.”
“Then you, lieutenant, need to be held accountable,” Salvatore said, wagging a finger.
“Let’s calm down,” Nelson said. He studied me and Edna for a moment before he went on. “Here’s what the department is willing to do. First, regarding the issue of sharing information, the chief is personally going to clear information through his office. We will immediately share facts that are not deemed essential to the investigative processes.”
Tristan was scribbling notes as the commander spoke while her boss was doing eye rolls. “Second,” Nelson said, “regarding specifics, namely the possible pregnancy and miscarriage of the victim in this case, I’d like that information to remain confidential…”
Salvatore began to protest, “That’s not…”
“However,” Nelson said, holding up a hand, “we will agree that the pregnancy information can be shared with the public within forty-eight hours, providing the victim’s family has been notified and the department has no basis to feel that keeping the information confidential will be detrimental to our case.”
Salvatore launched another round of protests. Commander Nelson patiently listened but held his ground. While there was blood in the water, for once, the department wasn’t throwing us to the sharks…at least not yet.
“What else?” Haley Tristan asked when Nelson finished.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” the commander said.
“What other key facts are Detective Sexton and her lieutenant keeping from us? Is an arrest imminent? Is there a suspect under surveillance? What’s going to be done about the department’s incompetence?”
Nelson started to respond but I beat him to it. “Nothing, no, no, and nothing.”
“What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded.
“Nothing is being kept from you, no arrest is imminent, no one is under surveillance, and nothing is going to be done about incompetence because there is none.”
“So, you’re speaking for the commander now,” Tristan spat at me.
“I speak for myself, unlike some people.” My gaze wandered over to Salvatore.
“What are you insinuating?” the city editor demanded.
I leaned forward, eyeballing the egghead. “I speak in facts, I don’t insinuate.”
“Okay, enough,” Commander Nelson said. “We’ve laid out the ground rules, so let’s not have any misunderstandings from here on out.” His gaze swept in the direction of Edna and me, then back to the reporters. “The chief has eyes on this. Let’s all find a way to get along.”
After another twenty minutes of the verbal wrestling match, we left the commander’s office with handshakes and fake smiles all around. I told Tristan that I’d meet her at Club Z tomorrow and we’d try to locate Shane Mumford. I waited and followed her and Salvatore out of the commander’s office. I didn’t want another knife in my back.
***
As promised, I stopped by my mother’s house on the way home to fill her in on my trip to Vegas. Bernie and I found Mom in her bedroom trying on outfits, some of which looked like they’d survived the 1960’s—barely.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as Bernie found a corner and I held up a top that was embroidered with flowers and had fringe on the sleeves.
Mom sat on the bed and smiled at me. “You’re not going to believe this, Kate. I have a date tomorrow night.”
“What?” I probably said the word a little louder than I’d intended. As far as I knew, my mother hadn’t dated in years.
Mom had recently had a facelift. While the results weren’t dramatic, her slight jowls had been tightened and her eye bags were history. I’m not trying to be critical, but if she’d just do something with her shoulder length graying brown hair she might be able to make a claim that the mid-fifties are the new early fifties. But with my own bird’s nest, I had no business being a hair critic.
Mom smiled like a little girl with a secret. “It’s true, Kate. We’re going to Cecconi’s in West Hollywood.”
“Wow, I’m impressed.” I sat next to her on the bed. “So who’s this guy?”
“He’s someone I met at my book club. He’s actually an author.” She reached over to the nightstand and held up a book.
“Who you Were, Who you Are,” I said, reading the title.
“It’s all about past lives, reincarnation, and finding a connection to your life’s purpose.”
“I should have known.”
My mother is a part-time psychic, new-age guru, and artist, of a sort, when she isn’t demonstrating in the nude for world peace or some other cause. I took the book from her and turned it over, seeing the author’s photograph on the back cover. “Well, at least he looks like a normal person.”
“Oh, Shumi is . . . I’m not really sure how to describe him?”
“Shumi,” I said, nodding. He looked like he was about mom’s age. I had to admit there did seem to be something peaceful and understanding in his deep brown eyes. Still I had to say, “Is the word you’re looking for to describe him maybe weird?”
“No. He’s very spiritual. I think you would like him, Kate.”
I took a moment and skimmed the description of the book on the back cover before setting it back on the nightstand. “If you say so.”
She stood up, went over and pulled another outfit out of the closet. “So tell me about your trip to Las Vegas.”
I briefly told her what I’d learned about my birth mother and that I suspected Ryan Cooper had caused her brain injury.
Mom sat back on the bed. She shook her head and her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you about Judie when you were younger. Maybe you would have gotten to know her and things would be different.”
I sighed, put my arm around her. “The past is just what it is—the past. We can’t change what’s happened, but I am going to find Ryan Cooper and bring him to justice, both for what he did to Dad and to my birth mother.”
Mom leaned into me. “Please be careful. If what we think happened is true, Cooper is dangerous. I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you.”
“I’m a big girl. Try to not worry.” I picked up Shumi’s book and smiled. “Besides, I have other lives coming my way.”
She went over and pulled something that looked like it might have been worn at Woodstock out of the closet. It was a white cotton top with peace signs and love written everywhere. “What do you think about this?”
“I think it would be fine if you and Shumi discover your past lives as hippies together.”
Mom came back over and sat down next to me again. “I need to ask you something, Kate.” Her voice had taken on a serious tone.
“Of course. What is it?”
She took a deep breath, her gray eyes fixing on me. “I’m a little out of practice about certain things. I’m not talking about the first date or anything, but what should I do if Shumi eventually wants to…to have sex with me?”
OMG! My mother having sex was the last thing I wanted to think about. My brow furrowed. I stood up and called Bernie over. I snapped on his leash and I said what I’d heard over and over again as a teenager and something that Natalie had recently taught me.
“Just be careful, use protection, and don’t text during sex.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next afternoon, Charlie and I drove to Club Z in West Hollywood. The brothers said they’d meet us at the club. I’d called Muriel Shafter earlier and she’d agreed to pick up Haley Tristan and also meet us there.
Bernie was in the backseat looking out the window, maybe trying to come to grips with the fact that he’d become a doggy daddy. Thoughts about Bernie and his romp with Mack’s black lab, Thelma, made me wonder if the private investigator had already left the coun
try. I stifled a wave of depression at the thought of having to raise a puppy with a house full of crazy roommates.
I’d spent a quiet evening at home with Natalie last night. Mo had a date, and Tex and Prissy were away. Nana had called and said she’d be spending another day or two in Vegas because consoling Elvis was taking longer than she’d imagined. The king of rock had probably locked himself in the bathroom and tried to drown himself in the tub. Natalie and I had a good laugh after Nana’s call, followed by a discussion of their upcoming luncheon with the Gooch and Glade.
When I asked Natalie what she was going to do if Nana was still gone on Friday she said, “Maybe I’ll find a replacement.” I told her I was way too young to be a Nana stand-in. The thought of spending my lunch hour with the brothers was right next to having electric shock therapy on my bucket list.
My thoughts surfaced when Charlie asked, “What do you know about Club Z?” He was driving through the streets of West Hollywood, weaving in and out of heavy traffic.
I brushed Bernie’s lint off my black blazer. I hadn’t been to the dry cleaner’s lately and was forced to wear my best Ann Taylor pants and blazer, a conservative outfit that I usually reserve for court appearances.
“It’s a big celeb hangout from what I’ve heard,” I said. “Robin told me once that a couple of his clients at the salon mentioned there are lots of extracurricular activities there involving hook-ups and drugs.”
“Sounds like your typical Hollywood gym.”
“Robin also said something about the club having every type of workout equipment you could imagine, including rock climbing walls and a boxing ring.”
“That reminds me. I’m allergic to any kind of physical exertion.”
“How’s the diet?” It was my futile way of trying to keep my partner on task with his weight issues.
He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, with everything that’s been going on with Irma, I’ve fallen off the salad wagon.”
I’d almost forgotten that he’d been called to his daughter’s school yesterday. My partner looked tired, his clothes a wrinkled version of something I thought I saw him wear a couple of days earlier.
“So what was the emergency?”
“Irma told her counselor that she’s planning to drop out of school to become an artist.”
“I didn’t know she had any artistic talents.”
“Only when it comes to needles and ink.”
“Don’t tell me.”
He glanced at me, smacked his gum. “The school’s name is The Ink Palace. Her boyfriend, Cleo, is an honor student there.”
We turned off on Fairfax Avenue. I could see Club Z up the street. “What did you tell her?”
“‘I said, ‘Not on my watch.’ After a long argument I told her that maybe she needs to go live with her mother.”
“Isn’t your ex living up north somewhere?”
Charlie turned into the club’s parking lot. “She’s back in town after breaking up with her soul mate. I’m gonna talk to her tonight about taking Irma for the rest of the school year, maybe sharing custody over the summer.” He parked and looked at me. “Tell you the truth, I think I need a break.”
I smiled and touched his shoulder in sympathy. He jumped like he’d been Tasered. “I think that might be a good idea, Charlie.”
When we entered the sun-filled glass atrium of Club Z we saw that Haley Tristan and Muriel Shafter were already there waiting for us.
“You’re late,” Tristan said, tapping the floor with what looked like a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s. She glanced over at Bernie and took a step back.
“Traffic,” I lied, trying to ignore her.
The reporter was dressed in a short blue skirt and white silk blouse that reminded me of something I’d recently seen in a Gucci catalogue. Her black handbag and matching pumps completed the expensive ensemble. I glanced at Bernie, secretly hoping the Jimmy’s would get a bath before the day was out.
“The other detectives are already here,” Muriel Shafter said.
In contrast to her reporter friend, the media relations officer wore a conservative color-blocked black and white dress. Her pouty, fish-eyed expression never seemed to change.
We were asking the Club Z receptionist about Gooch and Glade when Charlie got a radio call.
“We’re in foot pursuit,” I heard Kyle Gooch huff over the radio. “Our suspect is running to the west side of the gym. My bro and me are gonna bag the M and M.”
My hand tensed on Bernie’s lead. He immediately came to alert.
“M and M?” Tristan said as we pushed past her and Shafter.
Before I could respond with something politically correct, Charlie began moving toward the club’s workout area and said, “Mental Midget.”
As we entered the main floor of the club we heard a driving techno-beat over the club’s sound system, probably meant to inspire exercise. Instead, it looked like panic had set in. Screaming and shouting could be heard over the blare of music.
A woman turned to us and pointed toward a row of treadmills. “They went that way, toward the main floor.”
Bernie led the way, with Charlie falling in behind. Tristan and Shafter were lost somewhere in the crowd of patrons, all of us moving past the workout equipment toward the frosted glass doors that read, Restricted Area. Platinum Members Only. It was a mini-stampede of looky-loos, trying to get a glimpse of the action in the private area of the club.
We were stopped at the restricted area. A club attendant said, “No entry is permitted without a pass.”
I pointed to my dog who was now barking and straining on his leash. “Here’s my pass. Get the hell out of our way.”
Once we were inside the private area, the ambiance of the club changed dramatically. The lighting was more subdued. The music was still trendy but with less of the intense blare we’d heard before. Only a handful of patrons were milling about the area.
In the distance I saw some climbers on a rock wall as Eric Glade’s voice came over Charlie’s radio. “He’s on the zip line platform. We’re still in pursuit.”
We moved in the direction Glade directed us, at the same a man who looked like one of those male leads in a soap opera zipped overhead, his golden hair flying in the breeze. I recognized Shane Mumford from the WU Internet school directory site.
I pointed him out and said to Charlie, “That’s our guy.”
Bernie and I ran back in the direction of the gliding Tarzan, at the same time intersecting the path that Tristan and Shafter had taken to follow us. They turned back in the direction we were running and followed.
I looked up in time to see our suspect landing on a platform and climbing out of the zip line contraption. He then began running back toward the main club floor.
As Mumford smashed his way through the glass doors, I yelled out, “Stop or I release the dog.”
It was a bluff. Our suspect apparently knew it because the warning was ignored. Letting Bernie loose on Mumford in the crowded gym was not an option.
Seconds later we spotted Mumford as he ran into the men’s locker room. Bernie and I followed, but I was unsure if Charlie was still behind us. When I came around a wall of lockers I heard some men yelling. Naked patrons were grabbing towels and anything else they could find to cover up.
We turned the corner and spotted Mumford, sprinting toward the open shower stall. Our suspect slipped, losing his footing and went sliding into the showers like a human bowling ball.
Bodies parted. Men ran for the exits. I heard shouts of, “Somebody call the cops.”
The blonde bowling ball then struck pay dirt. In this case, however, the payout was in the form of a very large, very naked elderly patron of Club Z, whose legs were swept out from under him by Mumford’s impact.
The victim, who was surprisingly nimble given his age, weight, and circumstances, was immediately back on his feet screaming, “I’m gonna teach you what it means to mess with Newt Babich. I’ll rip your fucking nuts off.”
I h
eld Bernie back, watching with a combination of horror and amusement as all two hundred plus pounds of Newt Babich sat backward on our suspect, placing that most sensitive portion of his very large, elderly anatomy on his victim’s face. He then began wailing away on Mumford’s lower extremities, trying to make good on his threat.
I looked over as Kyle Gooch arrived at the scene, sliding across the wet tile and stopping a few feet from the action like an ice skater.
Gooch examined the shower scrum, before turning to me. “I think our suspect is in there somewhere, I’m just not sure where.”
Glade then arrived, caught a breath, and said, “I guess this is what they mean by laying a big can of whoop ass on someone.”
“Let’s just wait it out, see if he smothers the bastard.” Gooch scratched his head. “Is that what happens to your balls when you get old?”
“Fraid so, pard, and it ain’t a pretty sight.” Glade bent over, trying to get a better view of the action. “I think our suspect might have already fainted, bro.” He looked up his partner. “Just so you know I ain’t doing mouth to mouth.” He then looked over at me.
I shrugged and shook my head. Actually, I was preoccupied. I’d snagged my jacket on something during the chase and ripped the sleeve.
I looked back over at the action in time to see Shane Mumford’s body shift beneath the girth that enveloped him.
I heard a muffled cry for help. “He’s killing me. Get him off.”
No one moved. I looked over and saw that Tristan and Shafter had arrived, with Charlie trailing behind. My partner looked like he was going to pass out from the chase. I motioned to the brothers as I got Bernie under control.
“Somebody get him off and get Mumford in cuffs,” I said.
“Really?” Gooch said.
I looked at the reporter, back to the brothers. “Really. Do it now!”
Gooch and Glade gingerly took a step forward and politely asked the elderly assailant to stop battering our suspect.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Newt bellowed, still flailing away at Mumford’s privates.