Sex, Murder and a Double Latte (22 page)

“You want me to help you out?”

“Oh good, you can hear.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do? I’m locked up.”

“Mmm, yes, I did note that. All I want you to do is answer a few questions.”

He took another long sniff. “Why the fuck should I do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe you don’t want to be charged with a murder you didn’t commit?”

“What the fuck difference does it make? This is California, bitch. They got me on my third felony as an adult. It don’t matter if I get convicted of murder or violating that fuckin’ restraining order—either way I got life, so why should I fuckin’ care?”

“You should care because it
is
California, a state where capital punishment is alive and well. No pun intended.”

Mark didn’t seem amused, so I continued. “Did you see Bar—Bonita’s body?”

Mark looked away. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“She was hacked up—her body, her face completely mutilated. It was about as violent and gruesome as a murder can get. Do you really think that with your background the judge is going to show any leniency whatsoever?”

Mark didn’t say anything.

“Good, then you won’t mind taking a few moments out of your busy schedule to answer some questions.”

“Fuck.”

“You really like that word, don’t you?”

“I like the word all right.” Mark’s gravelly laugh sounded out of place in the hellhole we were in, but then again, if anyone could find amusement in hell it was probably appropriate that it be the Antichrist. “Saying it ain’t as good as doing it, though. Too bad they don’t allow conjugal visits no more, huh? Maybe if you ask real friendly like, the guards will let you blow me through the bars. You colored bitches are always good at sucking cock. You swallow, honey?”

How trashed must Barbie have been to have hooked up with this maggot? Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of indulging my nausea; this was a business trip. “How was it you happened to find Barbie?” The hell with him. She changed her name to Barbie and that’s what I was going to call her.

“Uh-uh, fuck this shit. You’re trying to get me to admit that I broke my restraining order.”

“Oh, give it up already. You called her work how many times in the last week? You don’t think her co-workers are going to testify to that? Everybody knows you violated your restraining order, and I personally don’t give a shit. Now let’s try this again, how did you find Barbie?”

I could tell by the constipated look on his face that Mark’s little hamster wheel was spinning. “I was…in the area where she works and…I noticed her get in her car and pull out.”

Oh, please.

“I wanted to…to talk with her.”

“About?”

“The bitch fuckin’ left me for no reason, and when she split she stole five hundred bucks of my fuckin’ money. Nobody steals from me. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna let her get away with that shit.” Mark stopped and straightened himself up, apparently remembering that he was supposed to be striving for delicacy. “Not that I was planning nothin’, I just wanted to talk to her now that she’d had time to chill out. So I…I drove in the same direction she was goin’.”

Thank God I wasn’t a defense attorney. If this guy was ever allowed to testify, the jury would probably vote to have him electrocuted right there on the stand. “Okay, so you ended up at Golden Gate Park. Why didn’t you get out of your car and talk to her right away? Why did you even let her go into the Botanical Gardens?”

“I couldn’t find any fuckin’ parking! That’s the part that the pigs don’t buy. I fuckin’ hate this city. It takes four hours to park your motherfuckin’ car. Is there something funny?”

I could barely stay in my chair. The inmates and visitors next to us were giving me strange looks but I couldn’t stop laughing. I managed to quiet myself down enough to resume the conversation. “Let me be sure I’m getting this. You were going to assault your ex-girlfriend, but you didn’t because you couldn’t find a good parking space?”

“I wasn’t gonna assault her, I was gonna try to talk some sense into the bitch. You know, if I had been able to find a spot sooner I might have been able to save her life.”

“Wow, what a knight in shining armor you are.” I tapped my toe against the hard floor. “So, you eventually found parking and you followed her into the garden. How did you locate her? The place where she was killed was a little off the beaten path.”

“I started walkin’ around. When I couldn’t find her right away I started callin’ her cell phone. She always had the loudest fuckin’ phone and she always had it set to ‘Jingle Bells.’ When I got near the redwoods I heard it and I…I found her.”

“She was already dead?”

“Yeah, she was dead. She was chopped up like a piece of fuckin’ meat. I don’t get it, man. I could see some guy getting pissed and slapping her shit around, or maybe she’d been leading him on and he wanted to bend her over and show her what a ’ho is good for, but to hack her up like that, that’s really sick.”

“Here comes that bile again.”

“What?

“Nothing.” I rubbed my hands against my jeans in a fruitless attempt to rid myself of his vileness. “Okay, so you found her hacked up. How did the blood get on your clothes?”

“By being a fuckin’ idiot, that’s how. She was lying on her stomach and for some stupid reason I turned her over to see…fuck, I don’t know what I wanted to see. It was pretty fuckin’ obvious she was dead. Fuckin’ stupid thing to do.”

“Why didn’t you notify the police of what you saw?”

“What the fuck you been smoking? What was I gonna say? That while violating my restraining order I found my ex, who happened to have been whacked just a few minutes earlier?”

“Right, so when you left, did you see anybody suspicious around?”

“Suspicious? Fuck, I don’t know. I wasn’t lookin’. I had to stay focused on how I was going to get my ass back to Vegas before the cops came looking for me.”

“Uh-huh, so it was a pretty quick mourning process, then?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Okay, so you didn’t see anyone who seemed out of place, or dressed kind of…funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Well, like someone wearing clothing that could hide a hatchet, like a trench coat or say…um…a cape?”

“A cape?”

“Yeah, you know a cape, like a vampire’s or something.”

“What, are you shittin’ me?”

“Okay, how about a tall guy with dark hair and big hands?”

“Hey, I told you, I don’t know who I fuckin’ saw, I wasn’t paying attention. The only person I remember seeing was…was you.”

I stole a quick look at the nearby deputy. “You saw me just as I was getting there and you were leaving.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know that.”

“Excuse me?”

“How do I know you were just getting there? Fuck, you coulda been just getting back after droppin’ off a bloody ax in your trunk.”

“I’m here trying to prove you’re innocent and you’re trying to pin the crime on
me?
”

“Hey, baby, it’s all good. I like ’em twisted. It just means I gotta remember to tie you up before I fill that drippin’ pussy of yours. You do have some cream in those panties, don’t you, sweetheart? I can always tell when a bitch’s wet for me. I’m talented that way.”

The inmate in the neighboring chair chuckled. He winked and stuck his tongue out at me suggestively. My jaw had gotten so tight that it actually ached. I took in a sharp breath and managed a fake smile. “The next time you get laid, there won’t be any pussy involved.” Mark lost a little of his color. I leaned in conspiratorially. “I think the term is fudge packing, and you being the skinny little thing that you are, I have a feeling you’ll be the one playing tight end.” I pushed my purse strap up on my shoulder preparing to leave. “I don’t have any more questions.”

I got back to my car and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. If I hadn’t been so intent on finding the true killer, I really wouldn’t have had a problem with Mark taking the rap for a crime he didn’t commit. And, who knows, maybe he actually was guilty. Hell, he could even be my stalker. But not likely. Mark wasn’t the obsessed-fan type; maggots rarely read books.
Hustler,
maybe.

I propped my chin up enough so I could stare out the window. There was nothing more I was going to find out about the details of Barbie’s death. Mark was the only other person who had seen the body directly after the murder and he didn’t know anything useful. I had to work this from another angle. It was time to talk with Shannon Tolsky.

When I got home I thumbed through my address book until I found a number for Tolsky Productions. After Tolsky’s death, the project of turning my book into a movie had been put on hold. I hadn’t pushed the issue because at the time I was busy writing my latest novel, and when that was done some psycho decided to dismantle my life. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Shannon was in publicity, which had nothing to do with me. Still, I had a contract with the company for which she worked. That should give me a little leverage. I picked up the phone and started dialing. It took me over a half hour just to be put through to the correct office. Finally I got a woman who identified herself as Miss Tolsky’s receptionist.

“Hi, I’m Sophie Katz. I’ve been commissioned to adapt one of my books into a screenplay for Tolsky Productions. I was wondering if Miss Tolsky has any openings within the next few days to meet with me.”

“Miss Tolsky doesn’t usually deal with films until they’re produced and ready to market.”

“I realize that, but I’m hoping she’ll make an exception for me. I spoke to her father a few weeks before he…well, about two months ago now, and there were some things that we discussed that I was hoping she could clarify for me.”

“Hold, please.”

Okay, maybe a contract wasn’t quite enough leverage to pull this one off.

“Miss Tolsky says she can see you tomorrow at three. Does that work for you?”

Maybe I was worthy of Cheryl’s envy after all.

The waiting room looked like a cross between a music video and a spread out of
Home Beautiful.
Everything was perfect, right down to the waxed leaves of the ornamental fig tree. I crossed my legs at the ankles and tucked them under my chair in hopes of drawing attention away from my scuffed shoes. I had spent a ridiculous amount of money on the last-minute airfare, and the only morning flight that had been available took off at 6:00 a.m. My return flight was scheduled to leave LAX at 8:00 p.m. So instead of packing a change of clothes and some toiletries for a fourteen-hour vacation, I had opted to bring just a purse and deal with being rumpled and baggy-eyed, since that seemed to be my look of late anyway. What I had forgotten was that people in L.A. don’t rumple. Okay, maybe there was a little rumpling going on in South Central, but not in the Valley. Plus, they don’t have bad-hair days, they sure as hell don’t wear scuffed shoes (unless that’s the style, in which case they’ll shell out an extra four hundred dollars for a pair of pre-scuffed Manolo Blahniks), and, thanks to collagen injections, the only bags these people had were made by Kate Spade.

The receptionist cautiously put the phone down, mindful of her manicure, and framed her mouth into a placid smile. “Miss Katz, Miss Tolsky will see you now.”

This was my moment. The thing was, I had no idea what to do with it. The woman I was about to see, justifiably assumed that I had come to discuss some business matter, while in truth I was here to drill her about the details of her father’s death. For the last twenty-four hours I had been trying to come up with a way of stating my purpose without getting kicked out on my tush, but so far I was drawing a blank. The receptionist arched an eyebrow expectantly. I gritted my teeth in a way that I hoped resembled a smile and opened the office door.

A woman with platinum-blond hair and skin a shade of orange that could only be purchased at one of the best tanning salons, stepped out from behind her Pottery Barn desk. I assumed she worked at Tolsky Productions, but there was little evidence of it. The only items that graced the desk’s surface were a Sony flat-screen computer, a Mont Blanc pen set to complement her monogrammed stationery, and a silver 1940s-style telephone. No paper clips, no stapler, no anything that could be considered useful without being pretty.

“Miss Katz, it is so good to finally meet you in person.” She extended her hand. “I’m Shannon Tolsky. I’m a huge fan of your work.”

“Thank you, and please call me Sophie.” I looked down at our clasped hands, thinking how she must moisturize hers twelve times a day as smooth as they were. “I really appreciate you seeing me so quickly. I know you don’t usually meet with writers….”

“This project was near and dear to my father’s heart. He talked about it incessantly. It really is criminal the way it’s been put on hold, but maybe I could help you with that. You see, while I truly love publicity, I think that your adapted screenplay and the subsequent movie could use my talents in the areas of development and production. I know that with my help, your book could be transformed into the next summer blockbuster.”

“Oh God, that’s great, that’s really…really wonderful. The thing is, I didn’t come to talk about the screenplay.”

Her surprise registered only with a few quick blinks of her eyes. “I see. Well then, why exactly are you here?”

“I wanted to ask you about your father.”

Shannon’s posture assumed a more militaristic position. “If you’re planning on writing a book on him…”

“No! No, nothing like that. You see…I read that you believe his death was the result of a murder. Do you still think that’s true?”

“Yes.” She eased into her leather office chair without offering me a seat.

“Well, so do I, and I think that the person that killed him has murdered before—and since—and plans on doing it again. In fact, I think I might know his next potential victim, so I was kind of hoping you could help me nail this guy.”

Shannon steepled her fingers in front of her chin. “You know who killed my father?”

“Oh, um…no. But I do have a few suspects in mind.”

“You do?” She took inventory of everything from my inappropriately sullied shoes to my frizzy mop. She gently swiveled back and forth. “Anything you need me to do to prove that my father’s death was not a suicide, I’ll do.”