Death by Sarcasm (16 page)

He stood and extended his hand. Mary took it. “So you’re Brent’s nice, huh? I can see a slight resemblance. You have all of his good, none of his bad,” he said.

“Brent didn’t have any bad looks. That’s why he was so lucky with the ladies.”

“I wasn’t talking about looks,” Mitchell said. He gestured Mary to the visitor chair that wasn’t holding the blue sportcoat.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, moving to the little bar off to the side. “It’s almost five, isn’t it?”

“Three-thirty,” Mary said.

“Close enough.”

He poured himself a scotch.

“Club soda,” Mary said.

“Boo,” Mitchell said.

Mitchell fixed the drinks and brought Mary’s to her. He then sat behind the desk and sipped.

“So how’s business?” Mary said.

“Good, good,” Mitchell said. “Ratings as good as ever. I’ve got three development deals on the table. This is the big time,” he said.

“I’m happy for you. So tell me how you found out about my uncle.”

“The news. Just like everyone else.”

Mitchell rocked in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He leaned forward, took a drink, then rocked back and again examined the ceiling.

“ So tell me about you and the gang,” Mary said. “Brent’s old gang. Way back when,” Mary said.

Mitchell’s head dropped down and he looked her in the eye. “We had fun,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

“So much fun that someone would want to murder Brent?” Mary said.

“I don’t know anything about that. Brent fucked, and fucked over, a lot of women. That didn’t go over well with the women, naturally, or some of the men, frankly. Old boyfriends, new boyfriends, brothers, fathers, uncles, sons, you name it. Brent pissed them all off.”

Mary pretended to take a drink as Mitchell looked at her, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.

“I’m a big believer in instinct, Mr. Mitchell,” Mary said. “And something’s telling me that this isn’t about a lover scorned. Somebody is killing off people from the ‘old gang’ as it were. Brent. Barry Lund. Noah Baxter. Dicky Kay.”

“Dicky’s dead?” Mitchell asked, his voice incredulous.

“Mm hmm. A glorious death on his ship of wonders the Diver Down.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mitchell said. His face had gone pale. Mary didn’t think he was acting. He was scared. But of what she wasn’t sure.

“I heard about Noah Baxter. Somebody shot him,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah,” Mary said. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“He tried to kill me first. And he was a bad dresser.”

“Jesus! What the fuck is going on?”

“I have no idea. So who do you think it is?”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s killing off you old unfunny fucks.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

“Just kidding,” Mary said. “But what do you think? Anyone from the old gang come to mind? Anyone who hated all of you and wouldn’t mind knocking you off one by one?”

“Everybody fucking hated us,” he said. “A lot of us weren’t stars. But we were writers, actors, producers, behind-the-scenes guys who made it happen. We ended up being quite a power to reckon with. Not bad for a bunch of guys who just started partying together and success just kind of showed up. Not to mention the fact that between Brent, Braggs and myself, half the hot ladies in Hollywood were getting laid on a regular basis.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

“I’m just stating the facts, ma’am,” he said.

“Fine,” Mary said. “Let’s get down to specifics.”

“Oh, looks like I got down to the bottom of my glass,” he said and went and refilled his scotch receptacle.

Mary waited until he had returned to his chair. “David Kenum,” she said.

Before he could answer, Claudia “The Claw” Ridner poked her head in. “Mr. Mitchell? You’ve got a pre-pro meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Mitchell nodded and waved her away.

“Let’s make this quick.”

“David Kenum,” Mary repeated.

“Oh God. Psycho. Utterly nuts. Mean, vicious, violent. He killed a girl. Probably more than one. He’s in prison.”

“Actually, he got out last week.”

“Oh Lord have mercy on us all,” Mitchell said.

“Know where he might be?”

“Fuck no!”

“Think he might be behind all of this?”

“Hell yes! The guy’s a basket case. He’s probably killed a dozen people we don’t know about!”

“Has he ever contacted you?”

“No. Never. I would remember because I would have fucking shit my pants.”

“All right. Marie Stevens.”

He turned slightly in his chair. The first time he’d shifted since she started asking questions. Mary noted the move.

“Nice girl,” Mitchell said. “A little weird. But nice.”

“Know where she is?”

“God, I haven’t heard from her in twenty years. She just sort of disappeared.”

Mary made a note to check a third database that sometimes revealed information her primary sources didn’t.

“That fucking Kenum,” Mitchell said. “One time I was banging this girl in the bathroom,” Mitchell stopped and looked at Mary. “Sorry, but…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard plenty of stories regarding sex in bathrooms. I was thinking of making a coffee table book about it.”

“Anyway – I was doing this chick in the bathroom and all of a sudden I feel this pain on my throat. I thought it was weird. Was I tangled in something? Then I turn my head and there’s Kenum. He said he wanted to cut my throat.” Mitchell shook his head.

“What happened then?” Mary said.

“Limp dick happened, that’s what. I was a horny sonofabitch, but show me a guy who can fuck someone while a knife is at his throat.”

Mary nodded. “That’s a cute story,” she said. “Bet you always tell that around the holidays.”

The secretary poked her head back in.

“Mr. Mitchell…”

He got up and breezed past Mary.

“Sorry, showbiz calls.”

Mary followed him out.

M
ary was not proud to admit it, but she was somewhat ambivalent about kids. She had a feeling she would be crazy about her own if she ever had any, but at the moment, there wasn’t a huge attraction there. Some kids were cute as hell. Beautiful, actually. And she did encounter a flare of envy now and then. But she also saw the other side of the coin. The loud ones. Messy. Shit their pants, etc. It really came down, though, to her own thoughts about herself as a mother. It was tough to picture. Being honest with herself, she was about as nurturing as Cruella deVille. Maybe the sight of her own little duckling would bring out her soft side, or at least, help her discover it.

Maybe she’d feel more optimistic about her abilities to be a mother if she ever found the right guy. Yeah, right. Like the guy across the hall who she hadn’t seen in a couple of days. She probably scared him off. He was probably negotiating the return of his security deposit. God he was good-looking, though. They’d have cute kids.

Mary shook her head. Chastised herself. Good Lord, Mary. You sleep with the guy once and you’re imagining what your kids will look like?

She stomped on the Lexus’s accelerator and shot onto the 405. The hell with Wilshire or Santa Monica Blvd. She was going back to a certain apartment building frequented by a smart-ass kid. And this kid in particular, she really, really didn’t like.

Twenty minutes later, she parked two blocks away from Kenum’s dingy apartment building. She was behind a grungy truck that had a paint-splattered ladder in the bed. Mary parked just a hair farther away from the curb than the truck so she could watch the front of Kenum’s building, but remain virtually out of sight.

She sat back and waited. It took almost two hours before the kid showed up.

Mary jumped out of the car, jogged up the street, and ambushed the little smart ass just as he was about to go inside the building.

“Hey, remember me?” she said.

The kid turned and rolled his eyes. “Aw, Christ.”

“Close, but the name is actually Mary. Christ’s mother.”

He started to open the doors to the building, but Mary had climbed up next to him and she put her hand on the door.

“You’re not funny,” he said. “You’re hot. But you’re not funny,” the kid said.

“Aw, stop, you’re such a sweetie,” Mary said. “So who told you to send me down to the boat?”

The kid shook his head. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That’s a pretty mouth you got, though. Why not put it to better use?”

Mary stepped in, grabbed the kid by the throat and pushed him back against the door.

The kid started to gag.

“Listen you little fuck,” she said. “Give me a name or I’ll take you around the alley, break your neck and leave you for the rats.”

The kid nodded his head as best he could. He even let out a little fart.

Mary let go, slightly. “David Kenum. Where is he?”

The kid gasped for breath.

Mary waited a moment, impatient.

“Where. Is. He.”

The kid looked at her, then a sheepish little smile crossed his face.

“Right behind you.”

D
uct tape was really an unfortunate invention, Mary thought. It seemed like a crutch for people who didn’t know how to fix something properly. Take tying someone up, for instance. There were all kinds of things a person could use. Rope. Plastic ties. All much easier to use. But David Kenum, he was a duct tape kind of guy.

“Big surprise,” Mary said under her breath. Yeah, no duct tape across the mouth yet. But Mary figured that would come next.

“I didn’t catch that,” Kenum said.

Mary studied Kenum for a moment. He had the body of a forty-year old. Lean, but muscular. Only in his face did he look his true age. He had a shaved buzz cut. And sleeves of tattoos. He smelled nice, though. Hugo Boss?

“I just said how much I like duct tape,” Mary said. “Perhaps the world’s most versatile product.”

“Smart ass, huh?”

“Me? Smart ass? No. Great ass? Yeah. I don’t like to brag, but...”

Kenum didn’t even smile, just gave a small nod. “Funny. You remind me of Coop. Brent. Your uncle.”

“I hate it when people say that.”

“He was a dick, wasn’t he?”

“I can’t speak ill of the dead. My religion prohibits it.” She paused. “At least he didn’t turn some young girl into sashimi like you did.”

She watched him but he showed no reaction. Apparently prison didn’t turn you into an emotional open book. News alert.

Whether Kenum was pissed or not, Mary didn’t know. But for some reason, he wasn’t adding a swatch of duct tape across her mouth.

“I bet you’re wondering what happened on the boat,” she said. “You were probably thinking I’d be turning into a piece of coral by now,” he said.

Kenum didn’t answer.

“I’m a big fan of Baywatch,” Mary said. “So I asked myself, ‘what would David Hasselhoff do?’ Answer: I doggy paddled into some kelp and waited for a Jet Ski. It worked. I still can’t believe a shark wasn’t tempted. I’ve heard that I’m absolutely delicious.”

“Fascinating.”

“And now ol’ Dicky Kay is dead.”

“Who?”

“Don’t be injurious to the dead, my ex-convict friend,” Mary said. “That’s bad karma.”

Kenum looked at her, sharp interest in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone took a filet knife to him and butterflied him. Put some lemon and butter on him and he’s ready for the grill.”

“Huh,” Kenum said.

“Let me guess, you had nothing to do with it?”

Kenum sighed. “I thought prison was violent. This is ridiculous.”

“Hey, you mentioned my uncle earlier, why did you kill him?” Mary said. “Was he really that bad on stage? I mean, I’ve heckled people for bad shows, but come on.”

Kenum gave a soft laugh. “That’s funny.”

“Glad you think so – otherwise you’d probably kill me.”

Kenum pulled a chair up across from her swung it around and sat backwards on it, facing her and the door.

“So now I’d like to ask some questions,” he said.

“Shoot,” Mary said. “By shoot, I mean ask. Don’t shoot me. I’m too young and pretty to die. Plus, I’m wearing dirty underwear.”

“Let’s start by you telling me why you’ve been looking for me.”

Mary smiled. “I just though since Brent was my uncle, and you killed him, that we have a lot in common. Maybe we could be friends. Start a book club. Take some Thai cooking classes together.”

Kenum shook his head.

“I didn’t kill your uncle,” he said.

Lies, lies and more lies, Mary thought. But he didn’t look like he was lying. And why would he? How could she possibly be a threat to him now?

“No?” Mary said. “Then why did you pay the kid to send me to the boat and have Dicky turn me into bait?”

“I didn’t.”

“Mm hmm. Just like you didn’t kill that girl way back when.”

“I didn’t.”

“Spoken like a true convict. Prison is filled with innocent men, right?”

Kenum shook his head. “No. It’s filled mostly with rotten, guilty fucks. But there are a few innocents in there. More than most people think.”

“And you’re one of them, right?”

“I’m guilty of a lot of things. But I didn’t kill that girl. And I didn’t kill your uncle.”

“Then who did?”

Kenum looked at her, but then his eyes lifted over her shoulder. His expression didn’t change at all. But she sensed something was wrong.

Mary turned in her chair.

Six figures wearing identical blue suits stood behind her. They all wore Richard Nixon masks.

“I’m guessing they did,” Kenum said.

N
othing happened for a moment. No one spoke. No one moved.

“Hey, it’s the Village People,” Mary said.

Two things immediately happened at once. Kenum lifted his shirt and pulled a small automatic from his waistline. Simultaneously, the Nixon in the middle lifted his arm to reveal an automatic with a silencer attached.

The Nixon’s gun spat first.

Kenum’s gun fell without firing. Along with its owner, who now sported a red hole just above his right eye.