“Nice,” Mary said.
“Nice rack,” he said.
She considered backhanding him but pictured another trip downtown, this time a charge of child abuse and decided against it.
“They miss you at Finishing School,” Mary said, then walked past him and pushed her way into the building, through old steel doors with cracked glass and creaking hinges. Kids today, she thought.
The intercom system wasn’t functional. Mary knew this because the entire metal face of the system was smashed inward, as if someone with a size 17 EE foot had made the kick of his life.
It didn’t matter. The PO had told her it was apartment 525. She took the stairs to the fifth floor, then fished the.45 out of its holster. She held it at her side as she got to the door.
Apparently the guy with the 17 EE feet got around. Because David Kenum’s door looked just like David Kenum’s apartment building’s intercom system. Smashed in and hanging uselessly in the breeze.
Reminiscent of a Pottery Barn catalogue, Mary thought to herself. The only time Martha Stewart would find herself in a place like this would be if she’d been abducted and held hostage — ransomers demanding her recipe for cream cheese mashed potatoes.
Mary took a step inside the apartment, holding the.45 with both hands, pointed vaguely at the floor in front of her. The first thing she noticed was the smell. There are bad smells, and then there are bad smells. This was horrible. Not dead-body-bad, but definitely fecal-debris-bad.
“Eesh,” Mary said to the empty room.
Only the stench answered her back. Mary took in the place: a single large room with a small kitchen consisting of an ancient stove and tall rectangle of dust where a refrigerator used to be.
She moved through the main room to the back where a tiny bathroom with a filthy toilet sat. “Love what you’ve done with the powder room, Mr. Kenum,” she said. Mary was looking at the rings of growth inside the toilet when she heard the soft scrape of a shoe behind her.
She whirled and had the.45’s three-dot sights lined up on the forehead of her unannounced guest.
“He’s not here, Sugar.”
She lowered the gun.
It was the boy from outside.
“You’re as bright as you’re polite,” she said.
“Nice gun,” he said. “I like a woman with a big gun like that. Turns me on.”
“So, Miss Manners,” Mary said. “Do you live here?”
“What’s it to you?”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You said ‘he’s not here.’ Who’s not here?”
“Santa Claus,” the kid said. “Who do you think? The guy that lived here. David.”
Mary nodded. “So if he’s not here, then where is he?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
Mary rolled her eyes again. She took out a twenty.
“I’m not talkin’ about money,” he said. “How about you make a man out of me?”
Mary ignored the question and poked his palm with the edge of the twenty but pulled it back when he reached for it.
“I used to steal bottles of wine for him,” the kid said. “Last one I gave him was just before he left. Told me he was going to work on a boat. Offered me a boat ride.”
Mary gave the kid the twenty.
“This boat have a name? A location?”
“It was called the Diver Down.”
“If-” she started to say but he cut her off.
“I know, if I’m lying you’ll come back and kill me. Big whoop. I almost wouldn’t mind seeing those sweet jugs of yours again.”
It wasn’t until she was back in her car that Mary finally let herself start laughing.
Chapter Forty-Five
A call to her contact in the state’s vehicle licensing division told her the boat was registered and its home base was the marina in Marina del Rey.
Mary took the 405 up to Sepulveda, and followed that into Marina del Rey. She wound her way along the harbor until she came to the marina she was looking for.
She parked and walked until she found a small structure on the eastern side of the marina. It had a sign reading “Marina Office” over its door.
“Hello?”
“What can I do for you?” said a burned out, older surfer looking dude with pink shorts, an orange Polo shirt and topsiders.
“I’m looking for a boat called the Diver Down,” Mary said. “Guy’s a big fan of Van Halen.”
“That’s before Sammy Hagar, right?” the guy said.
Mary nodded. “Yes. Well before that epochal moment when ‘Van Hagar’ came into existence,” she said.
“Man, Eddie goes through lead singers like I go through flip flops.”
“So where is this ode to 70s rock?” she repeated.
The guy sat, swiveled in his office chair, and looked at a chart of the marina.
“Slip 73,” he said and pointed in a vague direction behind him. “That’s over there.”
“Thanks,” Mary said and headed for the slips.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jamie’s cryin’,” the guy sang.
Chapter Forty-Six
The Diver Down was painted red and white. It was about a thirty-footer Mary guessed. Not really a speedboat, but it had two big new-looking outboards on the back.
“Hello!” Mary called out. There was no activity she could tell of going on in the boat. But soon she heard the creak of the lower cabin’s door open and a man popped his head out.
“Yeah?” he said.
“David around? David Kenum?”
“Nope,” the old man said. “Who’s askin’?”
The man had now come out of the little doorway and stood on the deck of the boat. He looked old and haggard. His shoes and shirt were all a dirty gray. He had grease on his forehead. Dark, leathery skin full of deep creases.
“Do you know where he is?”
“How about you try answering my question before asking yours?” he said. His voice tired and annoyed.
Mary paused for a moment. “I’m his fiancé. His pregnant fiancé and when he found out the second part, he left faster than he did his deed. Which was pretty damn quick to begin with.”
Would this guy have any sympathy for a pregnant woman? Probably not. But it was worth a try.
“Ah Christ, I’m sorry,” the old guy said. “But didn’t he just get out of prison? How’d…”
“Conjugal visits.”
The old man nodded. “Well, he’s not here but I know where he is.”
“Let me guess. He’s in the drunk tank. Or back in prison.”
“Nope. Catalina.”
Catalina Island. About an hour and half boat ride from L.A.
“What the hell is he doing out there?” Mary said. “Going for horseback rides instead of earning money to buy diapers and baby wipes for us?” She patted her tummy and emphasized ‘us.’
“He came looking for a job. His parole officer sent him here, but I quit doing that after the last guy made off with my motors. Luckily I had insurance. But I told him about a guy I knew was hiring, so he said he’d check it out.”
“That’s funny, David with a good paying job,” Mary said. “Yeah, he just loved to work and work and work. Suppose you tell me what kind of “job” that douche bag thought he was going to get?”
“Something that don’t require much of a brain,” the old man said.
He looked her up and down and this time, Mary did detect a note of sympathy.
“Look, I’m headed out there right now.” He gestured toward a stack of boxes and crates that he’d lashed against a rail. “Have to deliver all that to the restaurant. I can give you a ride out there if you want.”