Arianna Davies was tall, thin, and pale. Her black hair was cut short. Mary knew that her nickname around the squad room was The Shark. Davies had a well-earned reputation as an apex predator. Now, Mary’s comment hadn’t even caused her to dilate a pupil. Mary noticed, however, that Detective Cornell looked like he wished he could liquefy himself and slide down the storm drain. It was the exact same expression he’d had on when Mary let herself into his apartment only to find The Shark literally eating him alive.
“Ah, I see that at least the Cooper wit still lives on,” Davies said.
Mary felt a spark of anger flash inside her, but she held her face still.
“And speaking of unwanted interruptions,” the Shark said to Jake. “I assume you were interviewing Ms. Cooper.” The way Davies raised her voice at the end made the statement both a question and an indictment.
“Actually, we were just finishing up — ” Jake said.
“Good.” Davies turned to Mary and spoke in a flat monotone. “You have our deepest sympathies. We will keep you up to date with the progress of the investigation. You will not do any investigating of your own. If you are observed anywhere near this case, you will be arrested and your private investigator’s license revoked. Is that understood?”
Mary seemed to absorb Davies’ speech with thoughtful concentration. Then she turned to Jake and gestured with her thumb back toward Davies.
“I thought these new robots were equipped with better voice modulators,” she said.
Chapter Three
Mary wound up at a dive bar on Ocean Boulevard that had been there since the Rat Pack was big.
Three strong drinks later, Mary looked at herself again in the bar mirror, remembering the young cop standing across from her, her dead uncle between them. The cop had looked at her, expecting her to choke out through great sobs a heart-touching story about the old man. Goddamnit, she didn’t have any stories. Uncle Brent had been a first-class smart-ass, just like everyone else in the family. He’d made her laugh a couple times, though. Like the time he’d told their church lady neighbor that he’d been up in Hollywood, making porn movies. Uncle Brent claimed to be making five movies a day, ten bucks a shot. He’d said his stage name was Dickie Ramms.
Mary had been in high school around that time, and she had nearly pissed her pants. Now, she suddenly started at her reflection. Mary was shocked to see a smile on her face, and even more stunned to see moisture around her eyes. It was leaking out onto her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand.
“Quiver,” she said, replaying the family tradition when someone was about to cry. “Come on, quiver,” she said to her reflection.
And that Davies? Come on. What in the world was Jake thinking? She was all wrong for him. Christ, if he wanted a sheet of plywood he should have just gone to Home Depot. Maybe he had some kind of weird fetish for women resembling corpses. Necrophilia Lite. Uh, God, she thought. She felt nauseated over the thought of a corpse. Her uncle. Fuck. What a shitty way to go. The anger came back, and she welcomed it. It was much better than the self-pity she was on the verge of diving into.
The bartender walked over and noticed her expression.
“Everything okay?” he asked. Mary thought she saw a touch of actual caring, along with a healthy dose of good old-fashioned curiosity.
Mary wiped her nose. “No, everything’s not okay. I just lost my uncle.”
The bartender started to offer his condolences, but Mary cut him off.
“But,” she said. “I haven’t looked under the fridge yet.”
The bartender paused, then walked away, shaking his head. Mary shrugged her shoulders. There were people who got her. And there were people who didn’t.
She’d long since given up trying to figure out who was who.
Chapter Four
Hey Brent, what are those photographers shooting? Your last head shot? Damn. Felt good to see that bastard julienned in the alley. It’d felt even better to stick the knife in him, to see the shock on his face.
I’m sitting a block away at a little Coffee Beanery, watching the death parade. The rats actually found him first. Maybe even gnawed a little on the body before someone called the cops.
Revenge was a dish served best over and over again. Third, fourth, fifth helpings. Keep it coming, baby.
Cops don’t have a clue, either.
You’re the first bookend, Brent.
Start off big, with one of the leaders. Sandwich a few of the sheep in between, then end big with the other bookend.
The set-up and then the big punch line.
Who’s laughing now, asshole?
Who’s laughing now?
Chapter Five
Mary parked her Buick in front of Aunt Alice’s house. The Buick was just one of her cars. She had a Lexus when she needed to meet with clients or set up surveillance in the wealthier part of L.A. She also had a Honda Accord when she needed to blend in as an employee of a firm downtown. They were parked in the garage back at her office. When she needed something really expensive, say a Porsche or a Ferrari, she just rented it. But Mary used the old Buick for occasions that took her into the financially depressed sections of L.A.
The great thing about the Buick was that even though it was old, it didn’t have many miles and it had surprisingly smooth power. Still, she’d endured quite a bit of heckling for it. A woman just north of thirty driving a Buick. She’d heard it all. Was the trunk big enough for a full case of adult diapers? Had she gotten an AARP discount? What was the dual temperature control for — menopausal hot flashes?
The sad thing was, most of those jokes had been her own.
Now, the morning sun warmed her back as she stepped onto the porch of the small house in a quiet part of Santa Monica. Alice Cooper had lived there for forty years. She and her husband bought the house back when she was acting and doing comedy. Alice’s husband had died of cancer, an agonizing two-year battle. Alice had kept both the house and her maiden name.
While Alice’s career had never recovered, the southern California real estate market certainly had. Right now, Alice probably had the lowest property taxes in town. When, and if, Alice ever sold the place, she’d be a very wealthy woman.
Mary gave a quick knock, unlocked the door with her key, and walked inside.
Aunt Alice sat in the living room with the television off and a scrapbook in her lap. She was in a wheelchair, one arm in a cloth sling, and one leg in a brace. The older woman had been riding her motorized three wheeler when she’d hit a parked car and flipped over it, onto the hood. Mary had always been a frequent visitor to the house, but ever since the accident, she’d been stopping by every day.
“Hey there Evel Knievel,” Mary said. “Want me to line up some barrels outside? Go for the record?”
Alice shook her head. “Always a comment. Even now.” But a small smile peeked out from the corner of her mouth.
Mary gave her aunt a hug and took in the comforting scent she’d known since she was a kid: laundry detergent and a hint of garlic. Mary glanced at the scrapbook in Alice’s lap and she saw an old picture of Uncle Brent. Mary rubbed Alice’s back and her voice softened. “How are you holding up?” she said.