The syringe was a typical disposable available over the counter in Mexico, and the heroin looked to be the local brown variety. He peered at the small bag and nodded to himself. He was no expert on different grades of the drug, but it looked brown enough to him.
Tasha translated for him, and the inspector reluctantly answered a few questions about the corpse. Yes, she’d had track marks on her arms and legs, although relatively few, so she had probably only recently graduated from smoking or snorting the drug to injecting it. Yes, that appeared to be domestic Mexican heroin. And yes, it was relatively easy to find someone who sold it in the clubs; getting heroin, cocaine, or anything else you wanted was pretty straightforward.
After further prodding and considerable flirting by Tasha, the inspector dropped a bombshell – they were treating this as a suspicious death because by all appearances, Clarissa had died not from the overdose but from suffocation. Their working theory was that she’d been smothered with a pillow and then turned onto her stomach, the syringe still in her arm.
“Then it’s a murder?” Black asked, after she’d translated it.
“That’s how they’re treating it. But he did say there was always a possibility that forensics got it wrong, and that her lungs stopped working as a result of the overdose. He’s being cagey, but judging by the way they’ve been questioning everyone, including the hotel staff, he must think she was murdered.”
“But they let Demille and Costa leave the country…”
Tasha said something to the inspector, who shrugged and offered a few sentences.
“There was no reason to hold them. And he says that in this country, they lack the resources to do in-depth investigations and keep suspects for days or weeks, like they do on your American television programs. He says he’s a big fan of CSI, by the way.”
“That’s good to know. So you’re getting the feeling that this will never be solved?”
“Based on his demeanor, barring someone coming forward as a witness, that’s the impression I got.”
Black asked Tasha to thank the inspector, which she did with much smiling and flashing of skin. With nothing further to do in the room, they walked together to the lobby. “I hate to impose on you, but I need to ask you for one more thing,” he said.
Her eyes locked on his and held them. “Depends on what it is, Mr. Black.”
He was again struck by her flirtatious persistence – he didn’t think he’d done anything to encourage her, but she didn’t seem to need him to. “I’d like a list of everyone at this event. As well as at the New York assignment where Daria died, and the beach shoot where the acid attack took place.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. But I don’t have the non-Demille personnel who were there. In other words, crew members and other agency-repped talent won’t be on it.”
“That’s okay. At least it’s a starting point. Although…were you at both of those shoots?”
“Of course. Tom has me go to all the big multi-agency events.”
“Could you jot down any names that you remember? Like…Gabriel, for instance?”
“I don’t think he was in New York, but I do recall he was at the beach. Okay, I’ll compile that for you once I’m back in town.”
Black slowed. “Tasha, I want to thank you for all the help. That will go a long ways toward me figuring out at least the beginnings of what I’m dealing with.” He checked the time. “Damn. I have to get to the airport. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
She slipped her business card into his shirt pocket and smiled. “Remember, you owe me, Mr. Black. By the way, what’s your first name?”
“Jim. But everyone calls me Black.”
“Yes. I think that’s more fitting. I like you better as Black.” She leaned into him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he smelled coconut and vanilla. “Have a good flight. I’ll be back in L.A. tomorrow. You should give me a call.”
Black handed her one of his cards. “If any light bulbs go on, those are my numbers. My cell’s always on.”
“That’s good to know,” Tasha said, managing to make it sound lascivious.
The taxi to the airport took twice as long as the Suburban had on the way to the hotel, and when he got there he was sweating through his shirt – the car’s air conditioning was in desperate need of a Freon charge, though the driver seemed oblivious to it.
Black checked in and called Sylvia from the departure lounge. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m still on the ground. I had to take a later flight.”
Sylvia sounded harried, which he could well believe on the day of a show. “What time will you be in?”
“The flight should be on the ground by six-thirty. So allowing some time for immigration, I should be there by…eight.”
“That’ll work. See you tonight.” He heard discussion in the background, and then she returned. “I’ve got to go. Have a good flight.”
The next call went to Daniel.
“The Mexican police are treating the overdose like it could be a homicide.”
“Could be? Or is?” Daniel demanded.
“They aren’t sure yet. But there are suspicious circumstances.” Black filled him in on his discussion with the inspector. “One telling thing, though. Could mean nothing, but there were two glasses with the champagne bottle.”
“Did the inspector think that was odd? Whenever I order champagne, they always bring at least two glasses.”
Black rolled his eyes. Of course they did. He should have known that from all the times he’d never ordered champagne – or anything else – from room service.
“No, but he did say that investigations down there weren’t as sophisticated as in the U.S., so not to expect too much.”
“That sounds like it could go either way, then. I mean, there’s no evidence that she was killed…” Daniel mused, thinking out loud.
“No, but they think it’s fishy, and they’re going to continue to dig.”
“Did you get the feeling that they were particularly competent?”
“That wouldn’t be the exact word I’d use.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Okay, thanks for filling me in. Keep me informed.”
Black ended the call. His head pounded as the last of the alcohol faded from his system, but he decided to tough it out and drink only water to give himself a chance to recover. He wandered the departure area and quickly grew tired of the shops. After purchasing a T-shirt for Sylvia he sat with the rest of the passengers, staring at his navel. Time crawled by and he found himself nodding off. When he came to, he looked up at the podium and saw the flight was delayed. He spoke to the attendant who told him she had no idea what the problem was, but would let everyone know just as soon as she had more information. One hour dragged into two, and Black was getting really worried when the attendant came onto the public address system and informed everyone that the flight had been cancelled.
He must have groaned out loud, because the woman next to him gave him a look like he’d been fondling himself outside the ladies room. Grabbing his bag, he raced the rest of the disgruntled travelers to the ticket counter, where a line was forming – a long one. After half an hour of waiting, a fatigued Mexican woman informed him that there were no more flights to Los Angeles that evening, and that the flights to San Diego, Phoenix, and San Francisco were all full. Black called Sylvia, but she didn’t pick up.
With a dawning sense of panic, he went through his alternatives, and settled for a flight leaving for Mexico City in half an hour, and then standby on a flight to L.A. from there. A lousy option, but one that would get him in by 10:30 or so. With any luck, he’d make it before the gallery closed – not a great solution, but better than missing Sylvia’s showing entirely.
The ride to Mexico City was packed. A baby in the seat behind him howled the entire way, and Black wondered what he’d done to offend a God who’d singled him out for torture. Once on the ground he raced to make his connection, and found himself facing a wall of tired trav
elers with the dull stare of pound dogs for whom time had ceased to have any meaning.
His was the last name called before they closed off the standby list, and he’d never been so pleased to sit next to a poorly ventilated lavatory in his life. The flight was a rough one, with substantial weather as they moved north, which slowed the plane by fifteen minutes. Black was an unhealthy shade of green when the plane pulled to a stop on the tarmac at LAX, and his heart skipped when he realized that they weren’t going to dock at a gate – they’d be trooping onto two nearby buses, which would ferry them to the terminal.
That little adventure added an additional delay, as did the two 747s of bewildered tourists that arrived at the same time, packing the customs lines. A stern agent eyeballed Black like he was smuggling a volleyball of cocaine in his sphincter, but after a few questions stamped his empty passport and waved him through.
Sylvia wasn’t answering her phone, and when Black reached his car it was already pushing 11:00. He slid behind the wheel and twisted the key, only to be welcomed home with a dull click…and then nothing. A quick glance at the dashboard confirmed the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach – he’d been in such a hurry when he’d pulled into the perennially gloomy parking structure, he’d left his lights on, and now his battery was dead. He sat in the darkness, wondering if crying or putting his fist through the windshield would do any good, and then resigned himself to his fate.
Ten minutes later a heavyset German man gave him a jump, and he broke every land speed record to get to the gallery. When he pulled to the curb in front, the windows were dark. His watch read midnight.
Sylvia’s line went to voice mail, and he knew as he drove home that he’d let her down, whether deliberately or not. This had been the most important event in her recent life, and he’d opted for a trip to Mexico instead of being there to support her. Never mind that it was for a job, or that he’d done everything humanly possible to keep his promise to her. He knew that what would be remembered was that he hadn’t been there, which sent the clear message that she couldn’t rely on him when she needed him the most, excuses be damned. He left a long, apologetic message for her, and when he disconnected, he felt like complete crap.
The streets from the gallery to his apartment had never seemed more hostile, and it was only with a Herculean effort that he resisted the urge to stop at the market and buy a bottle of mean streak and a pack of cigarettes with which to dull the ache between his eyes. Instead, he went home, cracked a beer and chugged it, called Sylvia a final time, and fell onto the mattress, exhausted, his day finally at an end, having accomplished nothing but ruining his relationship and stressing his liver.
Chapter 9
Black was just stepping out of the shower the next morning when his cell rang. He ran, dripping wet, and answered it, out of breath from the unexpected exertion.
“Yo, big dog. So how was Mehheeeco?” Stan’s voice boomed.
“Great. I spent most of yesterday flying to hell and back, missed Sylvia’s big gallery show, and had a model murdered three doors down from my room. How’d your day go?”
“Wow. Compared to yours, not so bad. Only one body – a dope deal gone wrong, and a traffic cam caught the killer red-handed. Slam dunk, another loser goes to the joint for life, and the streets are safe for women and children again.”
“I’d call that a win.”
“Yeah, but the depressing part is that the only reason we have so many easy solves is that the criminals are complete idiots. I wish I could say it was because we’re so bitchin’ smart, but it ain’t so.”
“Hey, if it wasn’t for morons, you’d be out of a job. Look at it that way. Job security.”
“Always the glass half full. That’s why I call you. That, and because I was hoping you’d had time to figure out how we’re going to nail Ernest.”
“I wish. I literally haven’t had a free second. But I will. I promise.”
“Clock’s ticking, my man. And I’m not getting any richer or thinner.” Stan paused. “Wait. Did you say a model died down the hall from you?”
“Yeah.” Black gave him the short version as he padded back into the bathroom in search of a towel, leaving sopping footprints on his faded beige carpet.
“Bad luck for you, huh? First day on the job.”
“The cop thinks it’s murder, but he was playing his cards close to the chest. You got any pull with the police south of the border?”
“No, but some of the guys in the department speak perfect Spanish. You want me to see what I can find out from the locals down there?”
“You’re a hero, you know that?”
“Save it till I see what I get from them. Hey, hang on a second.” Black heard muffled voices in the background. When Stan came back on the line, his tone had changed from relaxed to harried. “Call me when you come up with something on Ernest, okay? I gotta go.”
“Ciao, baby. Don’t forget to check with the Baja Federales.”
“Got it.”
Black tossed the phone onto the bed and returned to his morning routine. He was pulling on his suit trousers when he heard his front door close. He hopped over to the bedroom doorway and saw Sylvia, hands on hips and her face tense.
“Sweetheart. Did you get any of my messages?”
“I’m trying not to be angry with you for missing my biggest event of the year, Black.”
“How’s that going?”
“So far, not so good.”
“I called a half dozen times. It was a nightmare getting back here…”
“That’s your story, anyway.”
Black leaned against the wall and slid his free leg into his pants. “It’s the truth. I had to fly to Mexico City, and there were delays, and bad weather, and–”
“Tell me again why you had to leave the country the day before the show, and not any other day?”
“My new client had a photo shoot in Mexico, and ordered me there. I didn’t have any choice.”
“There’s always a choice. Like, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, but I can start full-time in two days.’ See? Not hard. It’s just a question of priorities.”
“In retrospect, I should have done that. One of the models was murdered down the hall from me, so my presence didn’t do any good.”
Sylvia’s expression changed. “A model was murdered?”
Black sighed, and told her the whole story, leaving out Tasha’s flirtation, his boozy evening, and the cigarette.
“How did the murderer get into her room?” Sylvia asked.
“Unknown. Maybe she was expecting him. She ordered champagne from room service in the wee hours of the morning. That’s not something I would expect a junkie to order for a nightcap.”
“No, more like a romantic rendezvous.”
“Which means she could have given one of her room keys to her date,” Black mused.
“Or she could have left the door open for him, and gone to get her fix before he got there. But she misjudged the strength of the local stuff…could that have knocked her out?”
“Absolutely. Addicts nod off all the time.”
“Maybe she was thinking she was doing just a little maintenance bump, and wound up with an overdose?”
“Could be. Only remember, they think she was smothered.”
“So the murderer came into the room, found her unconscious, and decided to kill her?”
“That’s a possibility. Another is that she wasn’t smothered, and suffocated as a result of the overdose. They were unclear on which, but they’re treating it as a murder.”
Sylvia frowned, thinking. “Do they tape the room service calls?”
“Good question. I doubt it. Why?”
“How do you know she’s the one who called them? Couldn’t that be a, what do you call it in English…a red herring?”
“But why?”
“To make it look like she was expecting someone and throw the blame onto whoever it was who was seeing her?”
Black appraised her wi
th new respect. “You have a devious mind.”
“Just tossing it out there.”
“How did the show go? Did you sell any paintings?”
“It was good. Lots of people, a few press interviews. And yes, I sold four paintings. Big ones, so the rent’s paid for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s awesome! Congratulations.”
“It would have been more awesome if you’d been there.”
“Sylvia, I know. I really did try everything to make it. You can check with the airline…”
“I did. Last night. I verified the flight was cancelled.”
“Then why bust my chops?”
“Don’t look at me like that. You deserve it. You picked work over me. A girl doesn’t easily forget that.”
Black went to her and hugged her, but she pulled away when he tried to kiss her. “Don’t push your luck. I’m still working on the forgiveness part.”
“Maybe a nice dinner tonight? Wine? Violins?”
“I’m still angry.”
“I’ll make a reservation somewhere way too expensive. We’ll pretend we’re celebrities.”
“You’re not going to get off that lightly, Black. Besides, I’m busy tonight. I have to go settle up on the purchases, and I already agreed to go to dinner with Stella after.” Stella owned the new gallery Sylvia had moved to three months before. “But maybe tomorrow. Assuming I’ve cooled off.”
“I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Sylvia, really. I know I blew it, even if it wasn’t my fault.”
“Yes, you did. But you’re moving in the right direction with the apologies.”
“That’s my evil plan. Oh, and I got you a T-shirt!”
“Don’t think that giving me extravagant gifts is going to get you out of the doghouse.”
BLACK Is the New Black Page 8