“We’re going to Catalina, dude,” he said to her. “Get wasted and then ride back!”
“I’m going to Catalina too,” Mary said. “To beat the crap out of a couple of old men.”
“Kick ass, dude!” the guy said.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Finding a guy with the austere nickname of ‘Mungo’ shouldn’t have been a big challenge to Mary. But it was. Because Mungo certainly wasn’t really Mungo.
Still, the old man had a boat and made deliveries. Mary was sure that part of it wasn’t a lie.
After her new ‘best dude’ dropped her off at the pier, she went to the public bathroom and checked her cut, which was pretty small, and pulled out the small business card case she kept in her front pocket. In addition to business cards, she had an American Express card for emergencies tucked in the very back.
She went to the first store she could find and bought a pair of overpriced pants and a matching overpriced sweatshirt, went back to the public bathroom and changed. Her head hurt, and her body ached. Her stomach was queasy from all the saltwater she’d swallowed. She wanted to call Jake. A part of her still felt like she was bobbing out in the Pacific, alone and bleeding. As much as the idea of hearing his voice pleased her, the hassle of explaining how and why she’d ended up here outweighed the benefit.
She needed to sit down for awhile and get her bearings. She went to a place called the Blue Heron and ordered coffee.
No point going to the cops on the island. For one thing, they wouldn’t do much. And for another thing, they might call L.A. and that would cause a huge cock-up and she might wind up in the Catalina slammer for a day or two. Nuh-uh.
She sipped her coffee and thought about what had happened. Why Catalina? Just to get her out on a boat? That seemed sort of silly. They could have said Kenum was a sport fisherman or a worker on a cruise line or a shrimper.
The waitress came back to check on her.
“I’m looking for the old bastard who tossed me off his boat,” Mary said to her. “Said his name was Mungo and that he ran supplies in here on a regular basis. Ever heard of him?”
“Nope,” the waitress said. “What’d he look like?”
“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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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.”