Mary was getting tired of the innuendo. But she knew it was all she was going to get.
“And that would be?” Mary prompted.
“That a celebrity type would venture into illegal practices within their industry. The kind that would generate lots of money.”
“And that would possibly hurt people?”
“Yes. That would be my opinion.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mary went back to her office to begin looking into the whereabouts of one Derek Pitts.
When she got there, though, she found an envelope that had been slid beneath the door.
Mary took it back to her desk, popped a Point beer, and slid a finger underneath the flap.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a medical file that had a header noting it came from the office of Dr. Frank Fallon.
There was a yellow Post-It Note on the front. It read:
Ms. Cooper,
I finally got access to Craig’s file from Dr. Fallon. I didn’t read it because I don’t really want to know what he talked about with his shrink. I did make a copy just in case, which you now have. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.
Sincerely,
Jenni Mulderink.
Mary drank from her beer and read the report.
One phrase was used repeatedly.
Sex addiction.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mary had no trouble tracking down Derek Pitts, thanks to her handy access to the Los Angeles County jail’s database. She logged in, searched under his name, and found that he had done plenty of time, several three-year stints, with an arrest record two pages long.
There was also a recent entry with the name and telephone number of his parole officer.
Mary loved parole officers, had done a lot of work with them during her career, and knew exactly how to impersonate an employer calling to verify a job applicant’s address.
It took her less than five minutes to get in touch with the PO, give her spiel, and get a current address for one Derek Pitts.
She jotted down the address and looked it up on Google maps.
It was a rough area in Los Angeles proper.
Mary went to the gun safe in her office, located inside a supply closet, put an extra clip for her.45 in her pocket, and strapped on an ankle holster which held her 5-shot.357 Magnum Smith & Wesson.
A girl could never be too careful these days, Mary figured.
She locked up the office, got into the Accord, and headed out for the last known address of Derek Pitts. On the way, she called Alice.
“I’m headed into the ghetto,” Mary said. “If I don’t make it out, sell my condo and buy yourself a Porsche.”
“The hell with that,” Alice said. “I’ll buy myself a Bentley. Porsches are passé these days.”
Mary laughed. “Just don’t let Sanji get his hands on the money.”
“Oh, his hands are full, believe me,” Alice said, then giggled.
Mary disconnected, and ten minutes later she was driving down a street that bore the name of Derek Pitts’ last address.
She found the house and saw that it was collapsing on its foundation. The window was broken, an empty bottle of malt liquor sat on the porch.
She parked the car, locked it, and walked to the front door.
In the distance, she heard a dog barking, and a rank, sour smell assailed her nose.
Knocking on the door seemed silly, so she walked down the length of the porch and peered inside the broken smashed window.
It showed a living room in serious disarray.
And an object in the middle of the floor.
It was a body.
She stepped through the window, careful not to snag her clothes on the shards of glass. Mary went to the body and looked at the face.
No doubt about it.
The man was dead.
He was naked, except for a baby’s milk bottle jammed into his mouth.
And he was Derek Pitts.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I’ve got a cold one for you,” Mary said into her cell phone. Jake was on the other end of the line.
“Perfect, I’m dying for a beer.”
“No beer, Jake. I’ve got a body.”
“Don’t tease me like that.”
“I’ll tell you where the body is if you can run down a name for me.”
She heard him sigh on the other end of the line.
“Why do I want to know where this body is?”
“Because it has to do with your case, I’m fairly certain.”
“Which case is that?”
“Craig Locher and Valerie Barnes.”
“Craig Locher and Valerie Barnes are most certainly not my cases,” Jake pointed out.
“Well they should be if you want to close them and take credit for all of my brilliant detective work,” Mary said.
There was a pause.
“Give me the address,” Jake said.
She read off the address and ended the call.
It was amusing how easily she could manipulate him.
Her phone rang and she wondered if Jake was going to refuse to come out to the crime scene. But the number on her screen wasn’t Jake’s.
It was Ann Budchuk’s.
“Ms. Cooper, it’s Ann Budchuk, I’m having an emergency, I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“Do you need to call 911?” Mary asked.
“No, it’s not that kind of emergency,” the woman said. “Look, it’s just really urgent that I talk to you at my house as soon as you can swing by.”
Mary told her she’d be there in less than thirty minutes, depending on traffic, and hung up.
She texted Jake that she had to leave, and then got in her car and drove to Budchuk’s place in the Pacific Palisades, just across San Vincente Boulevard.
Budchuk’s home was a cozy Cape Cod, painted an unusual dark blue, with white shutters and a one-car garage detached from the main house at the end of a gravel driveway.
Mary found a parking spot halfway down the block, then walked back to the house. She went to the front door.
It was partially open.
Mary slid her.45 from its shoulder holster.
She slipped in through the door and found herself in a tiny foyer with a coat closet to the left and an old radiator heater on the right. A door with thick glass squares faced her and it, too, was ajar.
Mary listened, heard nothing, then moved forward, nudging the door open with her shoulder.
To her right was a living room with a simple sitting area facing a flat screen television. To her left was a dining room with a pass through window. Kitchen cabinets were visible through the opening, as well as a kettle that still had steam rising from its spout.
Mary walked down the hallway between the two rooms and stepped into the kitchen.
Anna Budchuk was on the floor, on her back, with her eyes wide open staring at the ceiling fixture. Green vomit ran from her mouth down the side of her neck and pooled on the floor.
The rest of her body was covered with baby powder. The smell of the powder and the vomit combined to make Mary feel ill.
She then noticed a collection of pill bottles on the kitchen counter next to the sink.
Mary stepped over the dead woman, turned the stove off, then studied the bottles before slipping one into her pocket.