City of Saviors, page 7
“Six times since 2012,” I said. “You’re right—she needs money.”
“Who gets the guns?” Pepe asked.
I scanned the will. “I don’t see anybody listed. Where are the guns, including the one found near Washington’s armchair?”
“In the evidence locker,” Pepe said. “What’s his face in Ballistics will check to see if any of them have been fired recently.”
“I guess it’s kinda normal for a vet to have that many weapons sitting around,” Colin said.
“He hoarded everything else, so why not guns?” I pointed out.
“And that cash we found in his wallet,” Pepe said. “Seventeen hundred dollars, right? Why so much?”
I tapped the marker against the whiteboard. “Good question. We know he was a carpenter—folks may have paid him in cash. Luke, sniff around and find out where he got his income, and if he has a bank account.”
We rummaged through the boxes again and through all the items that had seemed important this morning, like the picture of Eugene and his friend on the red boat and the church services program. A battered camera case contained a wide-zoom lens and a folded piece of yellowing paper with letters written in fading ink. M.S., A.A. O.L., R.T. MM. Some letters had checks by them while other letters had been crossed out.
“What does it mean?” Colin asked.
“It means . . .” I held the paper to my forehead and closed my eyes. “Who the hell knows what it means on this, the first day of our investigation?”
“So now?” Luke asked.
“Now, Colin and I will talk to Bernice again,” I said. “And we’ll talk to Oswald Little and Isaac Underwood and then, just for background’s sake, folks over at Blessed Mission. Luke’s handling the old man’s finances. Pepe, you’re on phone records and medical history. We cool?”
Pepe and Luke eyed each other, then Colin and me. “That’s it?” Pepe asked. “Our suspects are a gold digger and a church?”
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“Usually, there’s more,” Pepe said.
“That’s our job,” I said. “To find more. Someone’s probably hoping that we’ll wander away from this case cuz he was an old man who died in a filthy old house on a filthy hot day. But our superpower, gentlemen, is figuring out why someone died.”
-I cocked my head. “Tired, Peter? Bored, maybe?”
“Nope,” he said, eyes on his pad. “Just don’t wanna waste time on something so . . . vague.”
I raised a finger. “To paraphrase Ghostface Killah—”
“Oh, hell,” Luke said, rolling his eyes, “you got her quoting Wu-Tang now.”
I smiled. “To paraphrase: stars, sky, look up, was I meant to be here? Dolla-dolla-bill, y’all.”
Colin waved a hand in the air. “Amen, sista.”
A roach—the small German kind—skedaddled from his home in an evidence box toward the fruit basket in the center of the table. One of Colin’s size 12s sent it home to the roach lord in the sky.
Lieutenant Rodriguez knocked once on the door before he shoved his massive bulk into an inch of open space. The fleshy bags beneath his gray eyes declared that he hadn’t slept much. And he’d been chain-smoking—his tobacco scent mingled with Pepe’s. Without uttering a hello, he barked, “Taggert, my office. Now.”
Colin flinched, then gathered his things.
Lieutenant Rodriguez nodded to me. “You feel all right today?”
My heart sent up a flare as my partner shuffled to the door. Today? “Just digging into the Washington case. Everything okay?”
“Yep,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “Everything’s good.”
And just like he came, my boss left without saying good-bye.
Pepe, Luke, and I sat there in the quiet. Then, Luke grabbed the last skewer of strawberries from the arrangement. “What was that about?”
“You two screw up again?” Pepe wondered. “Other than probably making this case bigger than what it should be?”
You feel all right today?
Maybe Lieutenant Rodriguez had discovered that I wasn’t 100 percent yet.
That I still popped an occasional Vicodin.
That I nightmared every night that I did sleep.
Sometimes, I look up at the stars . . .
9
IN THE COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES, THERE WERE SIX ENTRIES IN THE PUBLIC directory for Oswald Little. The first three numbers I called did not know Eugene Washington; the fourth and fifth possibilities did not answer their phones; and number six had been disconnected.
“You need to hang up the damn phone and stop working. You’ll never get laid with that thing glued to your face.” Lena poured more red wine into her glass, then settled deeper into the deck chair. “If your eyes are rolled back in your head from sheer ecstasy, time will pass and the case will solve itself. It’s like, not watching for the water to boil, or whatever the hell the saying is.”
I tossed her an eye roll while standing in the open patio door of my condominium. I’d taken Lena’s advice a month ago and spent half of my divorce settlement to purchase a beach-community, one-bedroom condo in Playa del Rey, just a mile from my marital Shangri-La. Being near the ocean calmed me. The white noise of crashing waves eased me into sleep (theoretically), and the lagoon on the condo’s backside provided me with ducks to feed.
And now sunlight glinted off the ribbon of liquid sapphire across the street. A flock of seagulls circled in the sky above the Pacific Ocean, adding to a cool breeze—the first I’d enjoyed that had not come from a fan.
“Who needs a man when I have all these seagulls,” I said. “I could sit out here and watch these birds all day. Just—”
My phone vibrated with a text from Greg. Thanks for calling Mom and for sending Det. Zamora. I know there’s not much you can do. Still, TYVM.
“Who’s that?” Lena asked.
“Mr. Norton thanking me.” I clenched, and waited for Lena’s French barb regarding this interaction with my ex-husband. When she didn’t speak, I gaped at her.
Brown eyes wide, she clasped her hands together, then said, “So . . .” She tugged at her pink booty shorts.
“So . . . what?”
“Before we have drinks with Ethan and Dominic, we’re going upstairs for dinner—”
“I told you that I didn’t want to eat with—”
“It’s not with them.” Hope and worry colored her face and twisted her mouth. “Chauncey called. He’s in town. He’s buying us dinner.” She smiled, frowned, then smiled again.
Despite his affair, his coming-out, their divorce, his marriage to his personal trainer the former Brando Gooch, despite Lena’s various Eastern European and Israeli lovers, she loved Chauncey Meadows. And she hated Chauncey Meadows. She was an ex-wife.
“What does he want?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe he went to one of those ‘pray gay away’ churches.”
I grinned. “The ones where you get healed and don’t like men no more? Just women, women, women?”
“I know—c’est impossible.” She plucked my romance novel from between the chair’s cushion and then read the back cover. “What’s up with you and Sam?”
“He’s still extricating himself from the case. So nothing’s up.” With that, I shuffled into the living room and kneeled before the last moving box. It was the “precious memories” box, the one that stowed my framed commendation from the city of Los Angeles, the blue velvet box that had held my Medal of Valor, and my wedding album.
Lena grabbed her glass of wine from the deck table and slinked back into the condo. “That’s it? No other comment or observation about Sam? Or about Chauncey?”
“Nope, nothing about Sam. But Chauncey? Don’t trust a big butt and a smile.”
“You’re quoting Bell Biv Devoe at me? What the hell does that mean?”
“That means, last time Chauncey was in LA I had to hold a cold pack to his face after you beaned him with your BlackBerry.”
She laughed, then adjusted a strap on her tank top. “Ah. Memories. BlackBerry—they still make those?”
“Do I have to go on this date then?” I asked. “Don’t you want some quiet time with your ex?”
She pointed toward my bedroom. “Go ye into the closet and put on something breathtaking and marvelous, oui?”
“Oui.” I trudged to my room and opened the window. Jonathan Livingston Seagull and his friends were still circling above the waves.
“Get dressed,” Lena shouted from the living room. “And stop looking at them damn birds.”
I groaned. Cement in my belly, I moped to the closet and stood there, idling the way women did before dreaded blind dates. Stacks of jeans (flared, boyfriend, skinny, boot-cut), rows of shirts (V-neck, scoop neck, Oxford, short-sleeved), and rows of shoes (heels, flats, sneakers, boots) surrounded me, but I didn’t want to wear any of it.
I pulled off my LAPD T-shirt and yoga pants. Glared again at the clothes on the shelves and hangers, then reached for—
“And don’t you dare pull on jeans,” Lena shouted.
“Leave me alone,” I yelled back, swiping at the hangers.
I hate Greg. And I hated him for making me go through this “dating in the twenty-first century” crap.
I hated the chitchat.
You ever kill somebody?
Did you see that post on Facebook about the cops who [insert horrendous thing done in the name of justice]?
What do you think of those cops in [insert city with a jackass police force]?
And I hated the strong cologne, the teeth kissers, the skinny jeans, the lack of curiosity in things outside his side hustle, the app he planned to build, his explanations about chem trails being real and the reasons he stopped eating red meat.
I want Sam. There were no stupid police questions with Sam. He wore light cologne. He used his tongue. He wore old-school Levi’s. Laughed easily. Enjoyed Porterhouse steaks. Wasn’t trying to get me to buy vitamin supplements or phone cards or his latest demo.
But I couldn’t have Sam. I needed Max Crase in jail more than I needed a lover.
And as I stood before the mirror, I saw that I also needed my hair done, just like Bernice Parrish had suggested. I texted my hair stylist and scheduled an appointment for Monday. Then, I turned back to the closet. What to wear? What to . . . ?
Screw it.
Gold Stuart Weitzman stilettos only worn once, and a clingy scoop-neck dress with no pockets to hold a phone card or vitamin samples.
* * *
Chauncey Meadows had pitched for the Los Angeles Dodgers for three seasons until he needed Tommy John surgery to reconstruct his ulnar collateral ligament. He recovered from the procedure, but by then the team had replaced him. Chauncey quickly pivoted and became a sports agent, using his natural talent for business and the connections he’d made as a starter. One client became three clients, and now he operated one of the most successful boutique agencies in the country.
But he still possessed the knobby knuckles and broad shoulders of a jock. He’d grown a thin mustache and goatee to hide the scars from cleats in his face and fights on the mound. His suit, with its high thread count, enamel buttons, and hand stitching, cost more than my last paycheck.
And now I wondered why the hell he’d come to Los Angeles, and I watched as he greeted his ex-wife as though he hadn’t cheated on her with his personal trainer.
“Bienvenue à la maison,” Lena cooed.
“De rien, ma cherie.” Chauncey kissed both of her cheeks. “You look beautiful.” Then, he grinned at me. “You, too, Lou. Especially after that accident.” He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. “The city of Los Angeles doesn’t deserve you.” Then he held out Lena’s chair as she sat at our table.
Redheaded server Amy wore a white apron that was cleaner than a surgeon’s scrubs. She draped stiff napkins on our laps as we grabbed cocktail menus. After she welcomed us to Mastro’s, she said, “If you’re thinking soufflés for dessert, you should order now.”
And so we did.
Lena ordered a dirty martini, and Chauncey ordered wine for the table.
Then, it was my turn. “A coconut ginger mojito. That’s nonalcoholic, correct?”
Chauncey and Lena were gaping at me. Virgin?
Amy smiled. “Sure is.”
“You still on the clock?” Chauncey asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Are you pregnant?” Lena asked.
“Stop asking silly questions.”
“You’ve just never . . .” Lena squinted at me.
“And I ordered our favorite Cab,” Chauncey said.
“Just trying something different,” I explained. Honestly? After today’s trek through Hoarded Hell, I needed a drink crammed with rum, vodka, and moonshine. But my blood pressure was high, and I’d promised Dr. Popov to adopt better living initiatives.
To avoid my friends’ scrunched eyebrows, I found interest in the polished cutlery, in the mounds of Caesar salad on the plates of diners at the next table, and, finally, in the leather-bound menu that listed six million ways to eat three thousand kinds of surf and turf. “So Chauncey,” I said, “what brings you back to Los Angeles? Business?”
“No, actually.” He sipped from his water glass. “Personal stuff.”
The server returned with my mojito. It was bubbly and gold—fool’s gold. Amy then presented Chauncey with the 2010 bottle of Silver Oak Alexander Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.
My mouth watered, and a whimper escaped from my lips as Amy poured that eggplant-colored liquid into two glasses instead of three.
“You sure?” Chauncey asked me.
I nodded, sipped my virgin mojito, and winced. Tasted like sugar and fake coconut, neither of which complemented a sixty-dollar rib eye. “Brando fly out, too?” I asked.
“Bran stayed home,” Chauncey said, “even though he hates to miss staying at the Four Seasons. I had hoped”—he smiled at Lena—“to stay out at the house. I love Connecticut, but I miss the Pacific Ocean.”
Lena sipped from her wineglass. “I’ll think about it. May not be enough room.”
“Last time I checked,” he said, “there were five bedrooms.”
Lena rolled her eyes, then gulped more wine.
“Lou, I hear congratulations are in order,” Chauncey said. “Finally, detective sergeant and a Medal of Valor. That deserves a toast.”
Lena squinted at him. “What the hell do you want, Chauncey?”
“There is something.” He squared his shoulders, then pushed out a breath. “Brando and I have been married now for three years.”
“And?” Lena said.
“And we want to start a family.”
“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” Lena demanded. “Why am I here, Chauncey?”
The ex-pitcher futzed with his napkin. “Well, it’s obvious that neither Brando nor I can naturally carry a child—”
“You don’t say.” With her tiny hand trembling, Lena reached into the dirty martini for the skewer of olives. She tore off the green globes with her teeth, broke the long toothpick in half, then dumped it on the table.
I held my breath as my shoulders automatically tensed—a cop all these years, I knew that danger lay ahead.
Chauncey forced himself to smile. “We—Brando and I—would like you, Lena, to carry him. Or her. A baby. For us.”
Lena glared at her ex-husband, then screeched, “What?”
Over at the next table, the family celebrating Nana’s birthday stole peeks at us. No one cared about Uncle Siggy’s appendectomy, not with family drama featuring an ex-wife, two husbands, and a baby happening just a yard away.
“I just . . .” Chauncey shrugged. “You know I still love you. You are the most beautiful woman in the world. So exciting and vivacious and . . . The baby, our child, should have a strong woman in his life, her life, and . . .” His eyes shimmered with tears. “We’ll adopt if you say ‘no’ because we trust no one else with this responsibility. We’ll pay all of your health bills, your clothes—I know you love you some Versace and Tom Ford.”
Then, Chauncey explained that he’d done research about surrogacy and in vitro fertilization, that Brando was totally for it, and that Baby Meadows would be very much loved. “If you want,” he continued, “you can stay in the cottage on our property.”
Oh, boy. That landed a punch in my chest and I coughed.
Lena’s hand flexed around her steak knife. “Stay in the cottage . . . Like a wet nurse or a mammy.”
“Don’t get that way,” Chauncey said, oblivious to the danger zone he’d just entered. “You’d just be closer. We’d really be a family. Our family.”
I placed my hand over Lena’s and squeezed. A silent plea for her to release the knife.
Her grip only tightened. She had dreamed of having two kids with Chauncey—Josephine and Noah Meadows. They’d vacation three times a year, play Monopoly on Friday nights, and watch Annie and The Wiz on Saturday nights. Graduation, weddings, grandchildren—she’d planned to celebrate each milestone with this man. And now . . .
BlackBerry in the face all over again. This time, with knives.
But Lena released the knife. She folded her arms and glared at the broken toothpick. Then, she closed her eyes and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“I think . . .” I swallowed, then started again even though my heart beat so hard I couldn’t hear myself talk. “I think she needs time to think about it, Chauncey.”
He nodded. “Of course.” He tried to smile at his ex-wife. “Take as much time as you need.”
A server sat my sizzling plate of steak before me, then did the same for Lena and Chauncey. Even with bowls of lobster mashed potatoes and sautéed brussels sprouts before us, no one moved.
Lena wouldn’t look at Chauncey. She wouldn’t look at me. She sat silent, barely breathing, arms wrapped around her torso like a straitjacket to keep herself together.
But Chauncey had already broken her.
Again.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
10
THE DEVIL LIES BESIDE ME IN BED, READY TO SLAUGHTER ME AS I SLEEP.
