“Wonderful,” Mary said.
She rang the bell.
The fighting stopped.
“Great, now the cops are here you idiot,” the man said.
“Shut up Paul you dumb-ass moron,” the woman said.
The door cracked open and Mary saw a sweaty female face with strips of wet hair strung across the forehead.
“I’m looking for a Valerie Barnes,” Mary said.
“What, are you a cop?” the woman said.
“No. I’m a marriage counselor,” Mary said. “Sounds like I got here just in time.”
The woman looked at her.
“Who the hell is it?” the man said.
“Some chick says she’s a marriage counselor,” the woman said.
“Tell her to go to hell, we’re doing fine,” the man said.
“Not in my professional opinion, sir!” Mary called out. She spoke to the woman. “So, are you Valerie Barnes?”
“What if I am?”
Mary sighed.
“Look, I’m not a marriage counselor, although it sure sounds like you could use one. I’m actually a private investigator and I’m here because a girl was killed yesterday. Her name was Valerie Barnes,” Mary said. “I’m just trying to learn more about her and if you’re the Valerie Barnes who lives here, then I can cross you off the list.”
“Tell that bitch to get lost!” the man called out from somewhere in the house.
The woman in front of Mary sighed.
“Yes, I’m Valerie Barnes,” the woman said. “Unfortunately.”
Then she slammed the door shut.
Chapter Seventeen
Mary left the bitch and the bastard, which sounded like the title of a Jane Austen novel, to their own devices and headed back toward Brentwood.
Mary was impressed with “her” Valerie Barnes. The murdered woman had carved out a very nice life for herself, assuming she owned the house Mary had seen earlier.
Thinking of her own finances, Mary felt somewhat embarrassed by the success of the younger woman. Oh, she wasn’t a complete fiscal flop, she had an investment portfolio, had built up equity in her office (she owned the building) and her condo was almost paid off. Although she sucked at math, Mary had forced herself to learn the basics of being a small business owner, the tax shelters available, and tried to make sound business decisions.
But she wouldn’t be buying a monstrosity in Brentwood, or Bel Air, or Beverly Hills or Malibu any time soon. But who really cared? She loved her place in Santa Monica. Loved the restaurant and grocery store in Venice, and loved being close to Alice, who was often a pain in the ass but at least provided some entertainment value.
Mary had found that being close with an elderly person was kind of like having access to a free comedy pay-per-view channel.
She turned off of Wilshire which had suddenly become clogged, and gunned the Accord down side streets, loving the power of the engine, the tight handling with the sporty suspension.
Mary had always had a bit of a lead foot, and now that she was driving this car full-time, she had decided that she would never go back to a “normal” car.
It took her less than twenty minutes to get back to Brentwood and a lot had changed since she’d been there just a few hours back.
Now, a shiny BMW 7-series sat in the driveway, and the gate was open.
Mary decided to be bold.
She drove right through the gate, up the circular driveway, and parked behind the Beemer.
No sense being shy, she thought.
Mary went up and rang the bell. There was a security camera flush-mounted above her.
The door opened and a man stood before Mary.
She instantly saw the resemblance to the dead woman she’d seen less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Hello,” she said.
The man looked at her. He was incredibly handsome, but his face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a man named Craig Locher, and I believe it may have something to do with what happened to your sister.”
Mary had guessed at the connection, but it sure looked right to her.
The man hesitated, then surprised Mary by opening the door wider.
“Why don’t you come in?”
Chapter Eighteen
The home’s foyer was as impressive as the outside. A huge vaulted ceiling, a bench off to the right, and a marble floor.
The man walked through the foyer, down a short hallway then turned left into the kitchen.
It was five times larger, at least, than Mary’s. With white cabinets, marble countertops, and professional grade appliances.
“I’m Trey,” the man said. “Valerie’s brother, as you guessed. Do you want something to drink?”
He had a bottle of Perrier on the counter and a stack of paper.
“No thank you. I’m very sorry about your sister,” Mary said. She was surprised by the invite in, and the apparent relaxed state of Trey Barnes. Was he this way with everyone?
“You’re a private investigator?” Trey asked, ignoring Mary’s sympathy.
“Yes, I’m looking into the murder of a man and it could be that your sister’s murder is related.”
“What, like a serial killer?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Mary said.
For a moment, Trey Barnes seemed to remember that his sister was now dead. Mary thought he might start crying, but he regained his composure.
“She was an awesome girl,” he said. “The pride of the family.”
“Are your parents…”
“They’re dead. Cancer got my Mom five years ago, a heart attack got my Dad six months after that. It was just me and Valerie. Now just me.”
He looked around the cavernous kitchen, for a moment seemed to be lost in confusion. He looked at Mary, seemed to be surprised to see her.
“So who are you working for?”
Mary hesitated. She ordinarily never divulged her employer, but in this case it seemed appropriate.
“A psychologist who was treating the victim.”
Trey Barnes nodded.
“Do the police have any leads on your sister’s case?” Mary asked as gently as possible.
Barnes sighed and looked around, as if seeing the house for the first time.
“I don’t think I can do this right now,” he said. “Do you have a card or something?”
“Yes, I do,” Mary said.
“I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got a lot to do,” Barnes said, gesturing at the pile of papers in front of him. “You can call me if you have any questions. And maybe we can talk more later, but right now, I don’t know. It just comes in waves. A minute ago I was fine, now I’m not, and then a minute from now I’ll feel better.”
Mary pulled out two cards, gave them to Trey and asked him to write his phone number on one. He did so and gave her that card back.
He saw her to the door.
Mary turned to him and said, “I’m sorry again for your loss.”
Barnes nodded.
“She was an amazing woman,” he said. “Now it’s just me.”
Mary didn’t know what to say.
Trey Barnes shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and shut the door.
Mary wished she could have said something profound. But being profound wasn’t exactly her strong suit.
Chapter Nineteen
Mary swung by Alice’s house after her meeting with Trey Barnes.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside.