“Man,” he told the woman who answered, “something’s happened at the house down here! Dude, it’s like Sharon Tate or something!”
A short while later, under the pergola by the pool house, the detective lifted his stetson and set it on the chaise lounge next to him. “Okay, Mr. Knapsdale-”
“My friends call me Exemel.” He had brought a bucket of granular chlorine from the truck and was using it as a stool.
“I’m not your friend, Mr. Knapsdale.”
“I thought-” He was going to say that the police were supposed to be our friends, at least that’s what they taught him inelementary school. “You can call me Exemel, anyway. If you like. My real name is Herbert.”
“So you’re sure she said ‘Marty’?”
“I think so. Sir.”
“She didn’t say a last name?”
Exemel narrowed his eyes and thought.
“Well?”
“No. Just ‘Marty.’” He nodded.
“And you don’t know who this Marty is?”
“There used to be a Marty who was my boss, but he moved to the coast a year ago.”
“And do you know his last name?”
Again, Exemel narrowed his eyes and thought. “No. Just ‘Marty.’”
The detective scribbled on his note pad.
“You think Marty knew these people?”
Exemel shrugged. “If we did their pool back then.”
“They moved in here seven months ago.”
“Marty was already gone. The good life in L.A., you know. I used to live in the Silicon, you know. Ever play Galaxy B72?”
The detective adjusted his underwear at the crotch and stood. Another detective, much younger, approached. “Mr. Knapsdale, when you went inside, what did you touch?”
Exemel thought. “I don’t know, man. I was, like, freaked out. I came around the corner with this bucket of chlorine-” he touched the container he sat on “-and the hose and saw the glass was smashed in and then I saw her on the floor and I ran inside and I saw the dead dude and, I don’t know, I was checking her out and him out and-”
“Yeah, yeah, so you said. Did you move anything? It’s all pretty much as you found it?”
“I might have moved something when I was checking them out, but I didn’t take nothing.”
The detective nodded. He spoke to his older partner. “It’s her, all right.”
“I knew it was her,” said the older man. “I busted her and Marty Grego bailed her. I figure he rolled her john, too, but the vic wouldn’t come back from Pennsylvania to testify. I made sure his wife found out about it, though.”
“You think Grego did this?”
“He or one of his goons.”
“The killer comes around back, maybe by the desert. There are some four-wheeler tracks out there, but the wind has been blowing. He grabs a bucket of chlorine tablets by the filter over there and smashes the patio door, surprising the couple, who are in the bedroom cleaning up after their afternoon recreation: untying, taking off the perv outfits. Out comes Ted Bigelow. They struggle, the killer smashes him in the head, then stabs him with something.”
“I think he used the statue for that, too.”
“That’s pretty weird,” said the younger detective. “The wound could be a bullet hole or some kind of knife.”
“The lab will figure it out. Either way, then out comes the missus with the gun.”
“She wasn’t able to fire it. It was loaded and the safety was off, but she didn’t jack a bullet into the chamber. Goon knocks it away, stabs her with her own knife. Or maybe he had a gun and forced her to put hers down.”
The older detective pulled at his lip. “Marty Grego would normally use Paul Champion, but he was killed in a car accident today.”
“There was an untraceable.22 in the car and the car was Grego’s, but it was coming this way.”
“Maybe Champion left here, went somewhere south, then turned back north. Make sure about the time of death. Of course, I’d rather pin it on Grego. A dead Champion is a little less likely to squeal on Grego than a live one, but only a little less.”
The younger detective suddenly cocked his head. They had forgotten about Exemel. The older detective turned to him. “You got big ears, Knapsdale? You been listening?”
“Huh?” said Exemel.
“You know a man named Marty Grego?”
Exemel narrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t think so. He the guy who moved to the coast?”
The detective shook his head. “Look, Knapsdale, you don’t breathe a word about what you’ve seen here. Anything about this crime scene gets out and you’re looking at obstruction of justice. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll bet if we had a reason to get even with you, we wouldn’t have any trouble finding an illegal substance or two,” said the younger detective.
“You’ll get no trouble from me, sir.” Exemel stood up and hefted the bucket of chlorine. “If you need me for anything, you can just call Desert-”
“Goodbye, Mr. Knapsdale,” said the detective, picking up his stetson.
Exemel was relieved the questioning had ended. He didn’t know how long it might take the money in the envelope, buried in the granular chlorine, to get all burned up or bleached out. He felt like some fine weed had kicked in. Dude! He now had possibilities. Sweet possibilities! Maybe start up his own game company, and finish Karma. Maybe he could go to India and work the deal there. It would take some thinking how he could spend that ten thou, but you can’t spend it if it’s all eaten up or bleached white. He was also thinking he wouldn’t buy any more of Iggy’s stuff. Back to Chuckster and the tried and true. Iggy’s stuff was way too weird.
“Loser,” whispered the younger detective.
“To the problem at hand,” said the older. “Let’s find out how Grego spent his day.”
“He’d better have an explanation for every minute,” said the younger.
“Every minute,” repeated the older. “If Marty Grego even stepped out for a phone call-”
“Toast,” said the younger.
A TEMPORARY CROWN by Sue Pike
Dolores shuffled into the Solarium looking for the paper cups the nurses used to distribute the meds. It was a hobby of hers, collecting the tiny, fluted cups. She liked to put treasures in them and line them up on the windowsill of her hospital room.
Leonard was slouched on the sofa watching TV and scratching his head. Leonard was always scratching his head. It was sort of a hobby of his, Dolores thought. She spotted four abandoned cups on the card table, but just as she was gathering them up her attention was caught by an image on the TV. She sucked in her breath as Bryce and a young woman drove onto the screen riding a huge black motorcycle, the pink sand of the Nevada desert glowing behind them in the evening sun. They skidded to a stop, pulled off their helmets and waved at the camera. The woman shook her head, catching Bryce full across the face with a sheet of long blond hair. Bryce brushed the hair away, threw his arm around the blond girl’s shoulder and laughed. Then Leonard started laughing and Dolores had to flap her hands to shush him so she could hear the commentary.
“Bryce Campion, best known for his role in Worlds Apart, and Marie-France Lapin, of Jazz Hot, the all-girl band from Paris that’s been making waves all over the country, announced their upcoming nuptials today in Las Vegas. Bryce is currently headlining a brand new show at the Three Crowns…”
Her knees wobbled and she dropped into a chair, sending the paper cups skittering to the floor. That made Leonard laugh some more, but when she started to shush him again she caught herself. His eyes had that glittery look that meant something crazy was going on in his head and she’d better watch out.
She leaned closer to the screen. “The wedding will take place next week in the Little White Wedding Chapel, a Las Vegas landmark.”