Bury Me With Barbie (18 page)

“Well, he’s married, but he’s not
married
.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, he has his own place and is legally separated, but the divorce hasn’t been finalized. He might call her an ex already because, I mean, who wouldn’t? What are your options? My separated-from-but-not-ex-yet-wife?”

Caresse had the sinking feeling Todd’s separation wouldn’t stick. She decided to take another blind stab. “And the kids?”

“Well, they’ve got the one boy who’s about your son’s age, but here’s where it gets complicated.” Skip ran his worn hands over his balding dome, smoothing back what little hair he had left.

Ann nudged in. “I can take it from here, Skip. I should have told her about Todd a few days ago.”

“Look, I saw the whole thing between Caresse and Todd come down firsthand,” Skip said. “They met, started to talk, and the pressroom erupted in a blaze of testrogen.”

Ann was nearly shouting. “Testrogen?”

“That’s my combo word for testosterone and estrogen. Love it or hate it.”

“We’ve got to tell her,” Ann told Skip. “She’s our friend.”

Skip shrugged and sipped his beer. “I’m
her
friend, I’m
your
friend, and I’m
his
friend. Sounds like lose-lose-lose.”

Ann gave him her I-smell-something-disgusting face. “Truth triumphs, even if it hurts.”

“Amen, sister,” Caresse said, bracing herself for the bad news by biting the tip of her straw.

Ann was ready to lay bare the facts. “Todd and his wife Fianna had their baby boy Harley four years ago. Same age as Chazzie. Then, last year, Fianna had an affair with a guy in Skip’s garage band.”

Skip looked ready to volunteer a name and then stopped himself.

Ann continued, “Fianna got pregnant and moved out with Harley, leaving Todd the house they’d lived in. Fianna moved in with buddy-boy and had the baby. Then Fianna and buddy-boy started to fight. Fianna kicked buddy-boy out and started calling Todd, wanting to reconcile. Todd is trying to decide whether or not he still loves his cheating wife—”

“Separated-from-but-not-ex-yet–cheating wife,” Skip clarified.

“Who now not only wants to bring Harley back home but a newborn daughter too. So, she’s changed her mind, and he still loves her, but he’s mad at her for cheating and leaving. They have a child together, but in accepting them back, he’ll have to raise another child who will remind him of buddy-boy forever.”

“It’s difficult,” Skip surmised.

Caresse’s eyes filled with tears. “Too messy for me.”

Ann put her arm around her and then came in for a full body press.

The waterworks began.

Skip tried to hand Caresse her drink, but she pushed it away.

Nibbles and Rhea approached, flanking a kid who had to be ten years Caresse’s junior. He was smooth-faced and bright-eyed, with tousled hair the shade of almonds.

Rhea touched Caresse’s shoulder, nudging Nick forward at the same time. “Caresse, this is Nick. Nick, Caresse.”

Nick looked frightened.

“Her crumpled look,” Ann joked, and everyone laughed.

Caresse grabbed her drink from Skip, downed it, wiped her eyes with the damp napkin stuck to the bottom of the glass, and laughed weakly.

“Excuse me, Nick. I’ll be right back.”

While one of the Las Vegas investigators dabbed Rick Uzamba’s neck with a moistened cotton swab where the hypodermic needle had left a dot of dried blood, another technician was upstairs, dabbing Zivia’s upper arm for the same reason. Both samples were then air-dried and packed in envelopes with sealed corners.

If the killer had touched Rick, it was necessary to test his clothing, so it was cut from his body and bagged in paper, along with his shoes. The fact that he wasn’t wearing any of the jewelry he generally never removed was duly noted.

No one seemed daunted by the fact they had to scour not only the outside of the residence and garage, but nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, the kitchen, the living room, the screening room, the bowling alley, the music room, the doll room, and the den.

Everywhere in the home where the floor was not carpeted, one team of investigators culled footprints from dust using an electrostatic lifting device while a second team used lifting film, taking care to preserve and store film containing impressions by taping the edges securely in shallow photographic paper boxes. When they ran out of the boxes, they utilized the alternate procedure of taping an edge of each piece of film securely in clean, smooth, high-grade paper file folders.

The backyard was examined exhaustively, from its tiered Cocobolo decks, umbrellaed tables, and lounge chairs to the hot tub, lampposts, and pool. The shrubs, hedges, and garden beds were searched for anything out of the ordinary as well.

Footprints across the perimeter of the backyard leading to the point of entry were photographed, including an object for scale, with particular attention paid to those in the softer soil.

“Large feet,” an investigator named Lou Gersikoff commented. “Looks like the imprint of a male sports shoe.”

“Basketball, football, running?” his colleague Uri James asked.

“The tread looks familiar,” Lou replied. “But we’ll know for sure soon enough.”

Latent prints on the sliding glass door leading into the home were dusted with black powder and photographed before they were removed with rubber lifts.

Russ Alexander stared at the linoleum at the edge of the carpeted room. The small square, which would serve as a space for a mud mat, was bare, save for a tiny, yellow-tinged dried liquid splotch slightly smaller than the head of a tack.

“What have we here?” he asked rhetorically. Treating the scabbed mark with the same methodology he’d use for dried blood, he lifted it with a moistened cotton swab, air-dried it, and placed it in an envelope.

Upstairs, in Zivia’s doll room, the smashed cabinets were photographed, left to right, floor to ceiling, so that the prints could be fit together to create a panoramic shot of the entire room. Wearing cotton gloves, technicians collected the plastic fragments from the cabinets. Each piece was then marked and packed in a labeled container.

Investigators combed the $8.5 million Las Vegas residence for more than thirty-six hours. Due to the high-profile nature of the Lil Beef case, FBI entered the picture about ten hours into the evidence collection process. The weapons and ammunition remaining downstairs in the secret room were confiscated.

The FBI was purportedly there to draw an association between rival hip-hop artists, but they were forced to reconsider the motive when they spotted the two Army duffel bags stuffed with Barbies lying on the floor in the doll room.

After Caresse finished washing her face in the restroom at The Grad, she emerged and looked around. The place was as wide and tall as a raftered barn, made homey with wood paneling, picnic tables, and sawdust scattered liberally on the floor. She found Nick in a dark corner with his back to
Legally Blonde
. He had gotten her a fresh Tom Collins, which sat on a fresh napkin beside a half-pound “Gradburger” and a full-pound “Supergrad.” He was drinking dark beer, waiting for her.

“Didn’t know which one you’d want.”

“Oh.” She was a week away from being hungry at this point, so she just looked at him forlornly.

“More for me,” he laughed, pulling both burgers closer to his brew.

She sat down slowly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Sure.”

Caresse was used to talkative guys, so she didn’t know quite what to do with the ensuing silence. Normally, she would jump to fill any conversational voids, but she wasn’t feeling it tonight. She waited. She watched him eat. His dark, bright eyes focused on the food like a squirrel inspecting the perfect pile of nuts.

It took a full fifteen minutes for Nick to grow uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat. “So, you live around here?”

“Yeah, a couple miles from work.”

“I work in Pismo,” he said. “I’m a—”

“Stockbroker,” they said in unison and laughed.

“How does someone in his twenties get started in that?” she asked.

Nick took a deep breath and was preparing to launch into his personal history when he caught the subtle change in her expression.

“You don’t really want to know, do you?”

Caresse thought for a moment. This was her chance to be brutally honest. But was there a way to minimize it with humor? She thought about Bree and Nibbles and Rhea and sighed. There was nothing to laugh about. “I’m writing a story on dating for the paper. That’s why we were set up. This is my last date. I’m ready to write the article now, and I’m kind of worn out.”

Nick pointed toward a door in the corner of the restaurant. “Grab your drink and a burger and come with me.”

Caresse tottered behind him, struggling with her purse, the plate, and her drink.

He led her to a door marked “manager” and knocked before opening it.

He snapped on the overhead lights. The cozy cubbyhole was empty.

He turned toward her. “I know the guy who runs this place. This is where he interviews new waitresses and gets caught up on paperwork. He’s gonna be busy in the restaurant tonight, so I’m sure he won’t mind if you borrow his space. I’ll tell him you’re here. That way, you can start writing your piece.”

“What’s his name, in case anyone asks?”

“Gavin,” Nick said.

She put her drink, the burger, and her purse on the desk.

Gavin had a quality leather office chair. She sank into it, putting her arms on the rests. Nick came toward her and, gentlemen that he had been so far she expected nothing more than a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek.

Instead, he zeroed in on her neck and gave her a tiny, twisted little bite. A hickey.

She yelped and Nick backed away, grinning. “Sorry.”

Her jaw was still on the floor as he left, closing the door gently behind him.

She stared at the movie posters plastered on the walls and then looked around at Gavin’s other knickknacks while rubbing her neck. She didn’t have a mirror, but as long as Nick didn’t have rabies, she would be fine.

She opened her purse. Out came the yellow legal pad. Out came a stack of random notes, held together in the corner by a navy, coated paperclip. Out came a green Sharpie. She thought hard and then began to write. After an hour, she was done. She re-read what she had written but didn’t know if it was any good.

She stopped reading and picked up the burger near her unfinished drink. It was cold, but it was delicious. She wiped her hands, picked up her green Sharpie, and began to write. “Feel the same, but can’t muster up the courage? Sharing some of these personal ad dates I’ve been on may be just what you need to get going.

Number One. The Bridge Player. Went well, as far as first meetings go. He kept turning to watch the football game on Brubeck’s TV. Talk revolved around lingerie, old people, death, and kids. Stats: Tall, forties, dark-haired, with Tommy Lee Jones eyes and a gaunt frame. Scorecard: Dinner, wine, jazz, walk back to my car, free book, no kiss, no second date
.

She chewed on the barrel of the Sharpie while she thought about her Starbucks date with Jerry. Someone knocked on the closed door, and she gave a jolt. She glanced over and braced herself, not knowing what to expect.

Ann stuck her head in. “Hi, Mop Top.”

Caresse relaxed immediately. “How’d you find me?”

Ann shrugged. “When it’s important to find someone, you usually can. How are you feeling?”

“Crappy. But my article’s going well.”

“Ready for some big news?” She sat on the edge of the desk and looked at the burger, drink, purse, and paperwork.

“Todd’s pregnant?”

Ann smiled. “The police want to talk to you.”

“The—what?”

“A woman up in Walnut Creek was found murdered. Your name and email address were on a slip of paper, in her handwriting, on her desk.”

“How—what?” She was in full-sputter now, springing away from the desk into the center of the room.