“It’s the Jake Cornell sex tax,” she said. “I don’t recall seeing that itemized on my annual tax statement.”
“It’s listed under city services.”
“Ah,” Mary said. She knew Jake was kidding around, but the idea of taking her home being seen as a charitable service pissed her off just a tad. “Well, I would accept a ride,” she said. “But I’m just afraid that if the Shark found out, you would have to tuck tail again like you did last night.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s called being professional,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”
“Career advice from a guy sleeping with his boss,” Mary said. “That makes sense.” She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling a cab. You meet a better class of people that way.”
“Look,” Jake said. “If you let me take you home, I’ll let you know a few things we’ve found out, okay?”
“Now you’re talking.” Mary climbed into his unmarked car.
Jake fired it up and they headed east toward Santa Monica and Mary’s condo.
“Spill it, Shark Wrangler,” she said.
“Bullet was a 9mm,” he answered. “The knife was traced to a wholesaler in Gary, Indiana, but their products are often moved from retail location to retail location so it’s virtually impossible to track.”
Jake swung onto Lincoln and Mary caught a glimpse of the ocean when they turned onto Ocean Park.
“Any other good news?” she said.
“We’re continuing to interview the waitress and trying to track down other customers who were there, but so far nothing. We have a few names we’re running down, but no one’s jumping out at us.”
Mary nodded.
“What about you?” he said.
“The guy who shot my car may have been wearing a turquoise blue windbreaker, but my wit is partially color blind,” Mary said. “So who knows?”
Jake pulled to a stop at a red light. They were a block from the ocean and Mary could see the moon peeking out from behind the Santa Monica mountains.
“Sounds like we’ve both got nothing,” Jake said.
“Is that what you’re going to tell Davies? Maybe during a little pillow talk?”
Jake sighed. “A. We’re not sleeping together so there is no pillow talk. And B. Christ, no, I won’t tell her anything you say. You think I’d tell her the truth? That I gave some information regarding an ongoing investigation to a private investigator? Do I look suicidal?”
Mary smiled inside as the light turned green and Jake gunned the car. He had shared information with her that Davies would not be happy about. That was good. She liked that. She thought of saying something nice to him.
Instead, she said, “Maybe it slipped out during a particularly fierce orgasm.”
Jake took both hands off the wheel to raise them in frustration. “You need to give me a break. That was a one-night stand — we were both drunk. It didn’t mean anything. And it still doesn’t. Besides, you and I had already broken up.”
“It was an unofficial breakup. You had Davies seal the deal — with her cooker.”
“Oh my God,” Jake said. Mary enjoyed the fact that she could exasperate him so.
They pulled up outside Mary’s condo and Jake rammed the shifter into Park. He turned in the seat to face her. “Don’t act all innocent,” he said. “I heard you were going around with some weird little weightlifter guy. What’d you guys do on your first date, spot each other on the squat rack?”
“The guy at my gym?” Mary laughed. “He was my trainer.”
“Yeah, sure. Uh-huh,” Jake said. “Probably your sex trainer.” Mary loved it when he tried to get sarcastic. It was like a kid trying on clothes that were too big for him.
“The only squat thrust I’ve seen recently,” Mary said. “Is the one Davies was doing over your goddamn wanker.”
“All right!” Jake let out a fierce sigh. He put both hands back on the steering wheel and squeezed as if it were a stress reliever. “Let’s just…stop talking about it.”
They sat for moment before Mary spoke. She really would have liked to invite him up to her place, but didn’t want to ask. It was like she’d gone too far down a one-way alley and didn’t have enough room to turn around.
“And for your information,” she said. “I didn’t go out with that little weightlifter guy. I was worried he would chalk his hands when things got heated up. Maybe strap on that big leather belt of his.”
Jake laughed softly. Mary loved to see him smile. He had a great smile, his eyes brightened and ten years fled from his face.
“You know what I don’t get?” he said, glancing in his rearview mirror.
“Nose hair,” Mary said. “But you’re getting plenty in your ears.”
“When we were together,” he said, ignoring her. “You never really acted like you cared too much, you know? I mean, I figured you did, but maybe I was wrong. And if so, then I don’t see why you would now.”
“Who says I care now?”
“You don’t?”
“I care about the truth,” she said.
“Oh, the truth,” he said.
“Look,” Mary said. “You moved on. You made love to a woman with the personality of a cod. And we hadn’t broken up yet. But if you want to maintain your innocence. Go ahead. Fine with me. Your conscience is clear, even if your ear canals aren’t.”
Mary swung her door open and stepped out. She shut the door then leaned in through the window.
“But even if I still cared, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you wouldn’t be able to withstand the full force of my emotions — it would render you a slave. You would beg me to allow you to caress my nether regions, to gently buff my ivory butt cheeks — ”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Jake said as Mary backed toward the door of her building. “Have a good night, Mary.”
He pulled the car from the curb and zoomed back toward the city.
She watched him go. Well, what she had said was mostly the truth. Except for the part about her ivory butt cheeks.
They were really more like porcelain.
Chapter Eleven
The Voor Haven Funeral Home was a modest building two blocks west of Santa Monica Boulevard. Mary stood in the stuffy, overly perfumed parlor next to Alice and her uncle, Kurt Cooper, Brent’s brother.
Looking at Uncle Kurt, Mary was reminded again what a cruel puppet master genetics can be. Uncle Brent had been a dashing ladies man. Uncle Kurt looked like Burl Ives after a three-month crack binge.
Kurt’s son, Mary’s cousin, was a twenty-three-year-old hipster named Jason. He had thick greasy brown hair and an impressive monobrow. Best of all, even with the nauseating stench of potpourri, Mary could detect the scent of marijuana that enveloped him.
In the casket next to them Brent lay in peace, with his hands across his chest and a microphone in one hand. The microphone had been Kurt’s idea.
“It’ll give him something to do with his hands,” he’d said.
One of Brent’s buddies from his condo complex stepped up to pay his respects. He held out his hand to Kurt, who stood at the head of the line.
“He was a good man,” the old man said.
“Nice try,” Kurt said. “I already called dibs on his stereo.” Kurt then beamed and clapped a hand on the man’s back. The man was caught off guard, looking at each of them in turn, and then back to Kurt.