Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 12

  “Old. Tan.”

  “That’s all that’s out here!”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of his boat.” Mary said. “He’s a big Van Halen fan, apparently. It’s called the Diver Down.”

  “Let me ask my manager,” the waitress said. “He knows everyone on the island.”

  Mary was about done with her coffee when the waitress reappeared with an older man dressed in jeans and a blue denim shirt.

  “Dick Kay owns the Diver Down,” he said to her.

  Mary smiled and wrote out a huge tip.

  Fifty

  Following the restaurant manager’s directions, Mary discovered it was a short walk to the dock and an even shorter walk to where the Diver Down sat in its slip.

  “Gee, it’s not like he and his buddy attempted murder or anything and are trying to keep a low profile,” Mary said. She shook her head. Bad guys were so brazen these days. Throw a woman overboard, cruise into the harbor, and take a nap. No big deal.

  Mary called out, “Hey Dicky, you dropped something back in the ocean.” She wished she had her gun, but figured that they wouldn’t try to kill her right here, in such a public place. Besides, she knew she could kick Dicky Kay’s ass, and she fully intended to do just that.

  She waited but no response came.

  Mary cupped her hands around her mouth. “Dicky, if you’re taking a crap, flush, wipe, then come out with your hands up. After you wash them, I mean.”

  A couple people started looking over and Mary knew they might consider calling the cops if she looked too suspicious. So she climbed onto the deck of the Diver Down and went straight to the cabin.

  Once her eyes adjusted, she immediately saw Dicky. He was flat on his back on the floor, and his body looked like it had been subjected to the infamous Torture of a Thousand Cuts. His skin was literally slashed everywhere on his body. Great folds of it lay exposed, and folded over, revealing deep red crevasses of flesh.

  There was a lot of blood.

  But the blood seemed to be too splashed around. It covered the floor. And only the floor. None on the walls or the ceiling. Almost as if there was a pattern. She cocked her head.

  And then she saw it.

  The blood was smeared into letters.

  Enjoy the floor show.

  Fifty-One

  Mary spent the night in Catalina, but at least it wasn’t in the slammer. It took the rest of the next day for the police to get her statement and let her catch the last ferry off the island.

  Mary finally made it back to her apartment. She immediately stripped off her nasty new clothes from the island, threw them into the garbage, took a long, hot shower, and went to sleep. In her dreams, she was still stuck in the kelp bed and she started to sink into the water. There was a white glow in the water beneath her and as she sunk deeper, it seemed as if it was rising. She peered closer. And she saw the faces of her parents.

  Mary shot up in bed, her breath coming in gasps. It had been years since she’d had a nightmare about her parents. Mary grabbed the phone and called Jake, but she went straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.

  Mary slept fitfully until morning, then got out of bed, showered again, dressed and went across the hall. She knocked on Chris McAllister’s door, but there was no answer.

  She went back into her apartment, made some coffee, and thought about the state of things. There was one facet of the case that had stood out to her from the very beginning. And this morning, she was determined to tackle it head on. She made a quick egg white omelet, chased it with toast and more coffee, then locked the place.

  It was time to see Harvey Mitchell.

  Mary took Wilshire from Santa Monica up into Beverly Hills and for once, traffic wasn’t horrible.

  Mitchell’s office was just off one of the studio lots in a little cabana type building. Outside there was a fountain with a sculpture of a girl doing a cartwheel. There were also people riding around in golf carts.

  Mary had chosen the Lexus over the Honda for the foray into Beverly Hills and now she parked it in a visitor space and went to the front door.

  She stepped inside and saw the desk before she saw the woman. The desk was neatly organized with an old-fashioned French phone nestled in its cradle.

  The woman behind it was in her early twenties, with a rock hard body and long straight black hair.

  “May I help you,” the woman said, her voice slightly rough and textured. Either affected, or lots of booze and cigarettes. Mary ruled out the booze, this woman clearly worked out. She was wearing a black t-shirt with black dress slacks. Mary could see the biceps and triceps struggling for dominance. “I’m Mary Cooper, here to see Harvey Mitchell.”

  Mary saw the woman start to speak but she spoke first. “Yes, I have an appointment. Three o’clock.”

  Mary watched as she looked at the book. The woman’s name momentarily eluded her, but then it popped in.

  “You’re Claudia Ridner, right? Mr. Mitchell’s assistant?”

  “Yep, but everybody calls me Claw,” she said, and held up one of her hands which had some impressively long fingernails.

  “Bet you can snatch fish out of a river with those.”

  “No, they’re not fake,” Claudia said, ignoring Mary’s comment. “And yes, you can go in.” She nodded toward the door behind her.

  Mary walked through the small waiting area with a loveseat, two chairs, and a curvy coffee table stacked with entertainment industry pubs.

  She pushed open the door, which was already slightly ajar, and stepped into Mitchell’s office. It was a large space, lined on all sides with glass that provided views of the surrounding greenery.

  Mitchell’s desk was solid black and solid wood, stacked high with notes, paper, and books. He looked up at her.

  “Ah, the p.i. who threatened to go to the press if I didn’t see her,” he said, his voice booming with a deep richness that didn’t get its just desserts through television speakers.

  He was dressed in a shirt and tie, Mary noted the blue sport coat tossed over the back of one of the visitor’s chairs.

  “Thank you for that completely accurate assessment,” Mary said. “That’s me in a nutshell.”

  He stood and extended his hand. Mary took it. “So you’re Brent’s niece, huh? I can see a slight resemblance. You have all of his good, none of his bad,” he said.

  “Brent didn’t have any bad looks. That’s why he was so lucky with the ladies.”

  “I wasn’t talking about looks,” Mitchell said. He gestured Mary to the visitor chair that wasn’t holding the blue sport coat.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, moving to the little bar off to the side. “It’s almost five, isn’t it?”

  “Three-thirty,” Mary said.

  “Close enough.”

  He poured himself a scotch.

  “Club soda,” Mary said.

  “Boo,” Mitchell said.

  Mitchell fixed the drinks and brought Mary’s to her. He then sat behind the desk and sipped.

  “So how’s business?” Mary said.

  “Good, good,” Mitchell said. “Ratings as high as ever. I’ve got three development deals on the table.”

  “I’m happy for you. So tell me how you found out about my uncle.”

  “The news. Just like everyone else.”

  Mitchell rocked in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He leaned forward, took a drink, then rocked back and again examined the ceiling.

  “So tell me about you and the gang,” Mary said. “Brent’s old gang. Way back when,” Mary said.

  Mitchell’s head dropped down and he looked her in the eye. “We had fun,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

  “So much fun that someone would want to murder Brent?” Mary said.

  “I don’t know anything about that. Brent screwed, and screwed over, a lot of women. That didn’t go over well with the women, naturally, or some of the men, frankly. Old boyfriends, new boyfriends, brothers, fathers, uncles, sons, you name
it. Brent pissed them all off.”

  Mary pretended to take a drink as Mitchell looked at her, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.

  “I’m a big believer in instinct, Mr. Mitchell,” Mary said. “And something’s telling me that this isn’t about a lover scorned. Somebody is killing off people from the ‘old gang’ as it were. Brent. Barry Olis. Noah Baxter. Dicky Kay.”

  “Dicky’s dead?” Mitchell asked, his voice incredulous. “Jesus Christ.” His face had gone pale. Mary didn’t think he was acting. He was scared. But of what she wasn’t sure.

  “I heard about Noah Baxter. Somebody shot him,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “He tried to kill me first. And he was a bad dresser.”

  “Jesus! What the hell is going on?”

  “I have no idea. So who do you think it is?”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever’s killing off you old unfunny bastards.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

  “Just kidding,” Mary said. “But what do you think? Anyone from the old gang come to mind? Anyone who hated all of you and wouldn’t mind knocking you off one by one?”

  “Everybody hated us,” he said. “A lot of us weren’t stars. But we were writers, actors, producers, behind-the-scenes guys who made it happen. We ended up being quite a power to reckon with. Not bad for a bunch of guys who just started partying together and success just kind of showed up. Not to mention the fact that between Brent, Braggs, and myself, half the hot ladies in Hollywood were getting laid on a regular basis.”

  Mary rolled her eyes.

  “I’m just stating the facts, ma’am,” he said.

  “Fine,” Mary said. “Let’s get down to specifics.”

  “Oh, looks like I got down to the bottom of my glass,” he said and went and refilled his drink.

  Mary waited until he had returned to his chair. “David Kenum,” she said.

  Before he could answer, Claudia “The Claw” Ridner poked her head in. “Mr. Mitchell? You’ve got a pre-pro meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  Mitchell nodded and waved her away.

  “Let’s make this quick.”

  “David Kenum,” Mary repeated.

  “Oh God. Psycho. Utterly nuts. Mean, vicious, violent. He killed a girl. Probably more than one. He’s in prison.”

  “Actually, he got out last week.”

  “Oh Lord have mercy on us all,” Mitchell said.

  “Know where he might be?”

  “Fuck no!”

  “Think he might be behind all of this?”

  “Hell yes! The guy’s a basket case. He’s probably killed a dozen people we don’t know about!”

  “Has he ever contacted you?”

  “No. Never. I would remember because I would have shit my pants.”

  “All right. Marie Stevens.”

  He turned slightly in his chair. The first time he’d shifted since she started asking questions. Mary noted the move.

  “Nice girl,” Mitchell said. “A little weird. But nice.”

  “Know where she is?”

  “God, I haven’t heard from her in twenty years. She just sort of disappeared. That Kenum,” Mitchell said. “One time I was banging this girl in the bathroom.” He stopped and looked at Mary. “Sorry, but–”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard plenty of stories regarding sex in bathrooms. I was thinking of making a coffee table book about it.”

  “Anyway – I was doing this chick in the bathroom and all of a sudden I feel this pain on my throat. I thought it was weird. Was I tangled in something? Then I turn my head and there’s Kenum. He said he wanted to cut my throat.” Mitchell shook his head.

  “What happened then?” Mary said.

  “Limp dick happened, that’s what. I was a horny sonofabitch, but show me a guy who can diddle someone while a knife is at his throat.”

  Mary nodded. “That’s a cute story,” she said. “Bet you always tell that around the holidays.”

  The secretary poked her head back in.

  “Mr. Mitchell…”

  He got up and breezed past Mary.

  “Sorry, showbiz calls.”

  Mary followed him out.

  Fifty-Two

  Mary was not proud to admit it, but she was somewhat ambivalent about kids. She had a feeling she would be crazy about her own if she ever had any, but at the moment, there wasn’t a huge attraction there. Some kids were cute as hell. Beautiful, actually. And she did encounter a flare of envy now and then. But she also saw the other side of the coin. The incredible amount of hard work it entailed. She didn’t think she could handle it. At least, not right now.

  It really came down, though, to her own thoughts about herself as a mother. It was tough to picture. Being honest with herself, she was about as nurturing as Cruella deVille. Maybe the sight of her own little duckling would bring out her soft side, or at least, help her discover it.

  Maybe she’d feel more optimistic about her abilities to be a mother if she ever found the right guy. Yeah, right. Like the guy across the hall who she hadn’t seen in a couple of days. She must have scared him off.

  She stomped on the Lexus’s accelerator and shot onto the 405. The hell with Wilshire or Santa Monica Blvd. She was going back to a certain apartment building frequented by a smart-ass kid. And this kid in particular, she really, really didn’t like.

  Twenty minutes later, she parked two blocks away from Kenum’s grungy apartment building. She was behind a beater truck that had a paint-splattered ladder in the bed. Mary parked just a hair farther away from the curb than the truck so she could watch the front of Kenum’s building, but remain virtually out of sight.

  She sat back and waited. It took almost two hours before the kid showed up.

  Mary jumped out of the car, jogged up the street, and ambushed the little smart ass just as he was about to go inside the building.

  “Hey, remember me?” she said.

  The kid turned and rolled his eyes. “Aw, Christ.”

  “Close, but the name is actually Mary. Christ’s mother.”

  He started to open the doors to the building, but Mary had climbed up next to him and she put her hand on the door.

  “You’re not funny,” he said. “You’re hot. But you’re not funny.”

  “Aw, stop, you’re such a sweetie,” Mary said. “So who told you to send me down to the boat?”

  The kid shook his head. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That’s a pretty mouth you got, though. Why not put it to better use?”

  Mary stepped in, grabbed the kid, and pushed him back against the door.

  “Listen you little shit,” she said. “Give me a name or I’ll take you around back to the alley. And not to fool around, you understand?”

  The kid nodded his head as best he could. He even let out a little fart.

  Mary let go, slightly. “David Kenum. Where is he?”

  The kid gasped for breath.

  Mary waited a moment, impatient.

  “Where. Is. He,” she said.

  The kid looked at her, then a sheepish little smile crossed his face.

  “Right behind you.”

  Fifty-Three

  Duct tape was really an unfortunate invention, Mary thought. It seemed like a crutch for people who didn’t know how to fix something properly. Take tying someone up, for instance. There were all kinds of things a person could use. Rope. Plastic ties. All much easier to use. But David Kenum, he was a duct tape kind of guy.

  “Big surprise,” Mary said under her breath. Yeah, no duct tape across the mouth yet. But Mary figured that would come next.

  “I didn’t catch that,” Kenum said.

  Mary studied Kenum for a moment. He had the body of a forty-year old. Lean but muscular. Only in his face did he look his true age. He had a shaved buzz cut. And sleeves of tattoos.

  “I just
said how much I like duct tape,” Mary said. “Perhaps the world’s most versatile product.”

  “Smart ass, huh?”

  “Me? Smart ass? No. But great ass? Hell yeah.”

  Kenum didn’t even smile, just gave a small nod. “Funny. You remind me of Coop. Brent. Your uncle.”

  “I hate it when people say that.”

  “He was a dick, wasn’t he?”

  “I can’t speak ill of the dead.” She paused. “At least he didn’t turn some young girl into sashimi like you did.”

  She watched him but he showed no reaction.

  Whether Kenum was pissed or not, Mary didn’t know. But for some reason, he wasn’t adding a swatch of duct tape across her mouth.

  “And then you did the same thing to ol’ Dicky Kay,” she added.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t disrespect his memory,” Mary said. “That’s bad karma.”

  Kenum looked at her, sharp interest in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone took a filet knife to him and butterflied him. Put some lemon and butter on him and he’s ready for the grill.”

  “Huh,” Kenum said.

  “Let me guess, you had nothing to do with it?”

  Kenum sighed. “I thought prison was violent. This is ridiculous.”

  “Hey, you mentioned my uncle earlier, why did you kill him?” Mary said.

  Kenum pulled a chair up across from her, swung it around, and sat backwards on it, facing her and the door.

  “I’d like to ask some questions,” he said.

  “Shoot,” Mary said. “By shoot, I mean ask.”

  “Let’s start by you telling me why you’ve been looking for me.”

  Mary smiled. “I just thought since Brent was my uncle, and you killed him, that we have a lot in common. Maybe we could start a book club.”

  Kenum shook his head.

  “I didn’t kill your uncle,” he said.

  Lies, lies, and more lies, Mary thought. But he didn’t look like he was lying. And why would he? How could she possibly be a threat to him now?

  “No?” Mary said. “Then why did you pay the kid to send me to the boat and have Dicky turn me into bait?”