Jump the Gun (14 page)

Chapter Nineteen

On the drive up to Santa Rosa, Mickey couldn't seem to shut up. Not that I wanted him to, particularly. I was driving, even though he told me at least four times that I wasn't on the rental car agreement and this meant we would be in big trouble if I got into an accident. I reminded him of the mountain lion fetish I had in my pocket, and how it had protected me so well up until now, and surely it would take care of me on this drive. He didn't respond to that. He held his sleeve against the little cut on his cheek that was bleeding a lot more than its size would indicate it could. One of my rings sliced him when I punched him. Good.

So, I drove and he talked. He apologized again about not telling me he was a cop. He confirmed what I had already figured out. He had sworn Luis and Brad to secrecy, until he could tell me “at the right time.” I guffawed at that.

There wasn't a lot of traffic on Highway 101 midday on a Thursday, so speeding was easy. I was going eighty-five before I finally listened to Mickey and slowed down. He was right—the last thing I needed was to meet another cop.

Mickey was recapping where things stood. While part of me didn't want to listen to Mickey the Liar anymore, it was kind of helpful.

Mary: disappeared in Vegas and had two fake cops looking for her. She was probably a bad guy.

Jake: bad guy cop in Vegas, looking for me. Knew I was there with Mickey. Was going to take us where? Or anywhere?

Luis: good guy, helping out in Vegas somehow.

Cassie: murdered. By Georgia?

Georgia: could be connected to Jake, so probably a bad guy.

Nana: knew Mary, and at least had met Georgia. Murdered?

Hatpin: somebody stuck it in Nana's glasses case. Mickey paused. “Then there's the rapist guy that might be holding a grudge. Jerry Walbon.”

I sped up again, gripping the steering wheel.

He touched my shoulder. “Slow down, Annabelle.” I did.

I punched the radio on. We were far enough north to get reception for my favorite station, the Krush. They play new rock, old rock, singer-songwriters, unusual stuff, well-known stuff. Always mix it up. And right then the Subdudes were on—“You'll Be Satisfied,” one of my most favorite songs in the world. Good music relaxes me, so I turned up the volume. Mickey started tapping his hand against his knee, while he was looking out the side of the car. I started singing along. And then, goddammit, he joined in.

I whipped my head around toward him. “The SUBDUDES? You know the SUBDUDES?”

“Annabelle! Drive the car! Watch the road!” I did turn back, but I was flustered. “MICKEY!”

“Shit, yes, they're my favorite band. What's your problem?”

I was in the lane second from the right, and after checking behind me, I swerved over to the far right, pulled up on the shoulder of the road, and came to a stop. I put the car in park and engaged the emergency brake, so I could turn and face him.

“Annabelle! For chrissakes! This is not smart at all. We could get hit sitting here!”

I just stared at him agape. “The SUBDUDES??? Aren't you from New York City? Are you telling me they played there? They are so NOT a New York City band!”

“I happen to have eclectic tastes, and yes, actually, they played at a little club on the Lower East Side several years ago, and I went to see them, and I now have all of their albums, and I sure hope that's okay with you! Jesus!”

I was speechless. My favorite band, his favorite band. He didn't like Andie McDowell. He was gorgeous. He was great in bed. He didn't seem to mind my ears. He told me that he was in love with me. This was all tooooo much.

“Tommy Malone…” I started.

“Unbelievably great guitar player, soulful singer. Johnny Magiore or whatever his name is on accordion and keyboards. And whatshisface on percussion, using mostly a tambourine and a mallet. Okay? You believe me?”

I nodded. “Steve Amadée. He's the percussionist. But they broke up.”

“I know. Too bad for us.” He paused. “All right, now, be careful pulling back out onto the freeway.” He turned to look out behind us at the oncoming traffic. I didn't move. “Annabelle?”

I looked straight ahead and started to cry. Lots of tears, snot starting to run out of my nose. “Kleenex in my purse,” I mumbled, and Mickey dug it out for me. I gave a hearty blow, and calmed down after a few moments.

“You okay?” he asked. He stroked my arm lightly. I let him.

“Wow, Mickey. I'm so far from okay it's ridiculous. And here you are, just about perfect in every way. But you lied to me, this huge, huge, ginormous lie, and I really want to love you, I do, and I want to trust you, I mean, we both love Tommy Malone? Are you kidding me?” I blew my nose again.

Mickey was patting my knee now. “It's going to work out. I don't know how, but it is. And I'll prove that you can trust me. I will. I promise.” He looked behind us again. “Do you want me to drive?”

I released the emergency brake and put the car into gear. “No,” I said. “I want you to be quiet.” I floored it onto the highway, some dust kicked up behind us. I couldn't help but think of Steve McQueen in
Bullitt,
even though his Mustang was a green fastback.

Chapter Twenty

Tall Oaks is tucked into a residential neighborhood of Santa Rosa. Four one-story buildings are connected by walkways and halfway-decent landscaping. I can't say it's exactly feng-shui-ish, but it's pleasant. I parked in the visitors' lot. Mickey followed me into the main building. We hadn't talked for the rest of the drive. I had turned the radio back off, too, not wanting to know anything more about Mickey's musical tastes…not wanting to know anything more about Mickey, actually.

At the lobby entrance, I saw Martha Davis, one of the administrators, behind the welcoming desk. We smiled at each other. “Bea! How are you, sweetie?” She stood up and came to greet me with a warm hug.

I stiffened. Bea. I had forgotten that Martha always called me that. Mickey raised his eyebrows at me and said, “Bea?”

I raised my eyebrows back at him and returned Martha's hug. “Good to see you, too. Meet Mickey Paxton. Be careful what you say. He's official po-leece.”

Mickey ignored me and shook her hand. “Martha.”

She smiled at him and then moved back a step from both of us. “Mary Rosen?”

I jerked in response. “How in the world did you know that?”

“Sergeant Franklin of the San Francisco police called and told me to expect you. Let's sit down in the office and I'll tell you what I know.”

She knew quite a bit. Mary had been missing since Monday. Martha had called her son to let him know. “We were especially worried because she hasn't been that steady on her feet, ever since she broke her foot.”

So Mary hadn't lied about her broken foot, anyway. “She was in rehab for a while, right? Bad break? She fell?”

“Yes, in fact she was in your grandmother's room when she fell. You remember, she used to visit the Alzheimer's wing, and Nana was one of her favorites. She had climbed up on a chair…” Martha paused. “She said she was getting something down for Nana, but the only things up there were that old clock and a framed picture, I think, so that excuse never made any sense to me. I suppose Nana could have asked to see the picture, but she was ill at that point.…

Anyway, Mary fell and was in rehab for many weeks. She got back here not that long ago.”

“Nana died while she was away.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“So, when you realized Mary was missing and you called her son, what did he say?” Mickey asked.

“He figured she had gone on another one of her gambling sprees and told me he'd start looking for her in Las Vegas.”

I leaned forward. “Does her son live in Las Vegas?”

“Yes, indeed. He's a policeman, a detective, I think. A bit rough around the edges, but a solid individual. Treats his mother like a queen.”

I grabbed Mickey's hand and squeezed it.

Mickey gave me a quick nod and then asked Martha, “What about Georgia Browning? Has she been here today, or yesterday evening?”

Martha looked confused. “Georgia? Why, no, she hasn't been here for a few weeks. She has done pro bono work for us, making sure that our residents and their families have their affairs in order, from wills to end-of-life preferences. But she had signed on to help us for six months, and that term finished, like I said, oh, around a month or two ago.” Martha turned to me. “What does Georgia have to do with this?”

I shook my head. “We're not sure.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the hatpin, careful not to stab myself, and showed it to her. “Ever seen this?”

Mary started. Her eyes got big. She squirmed in her chair. “Oh my goodness.”

Mickey and I did a double-take. “What?!” we said in unison.

“That's Mary's hatpin.” Martha took it from me and turned it over and over in her hands. “She used to wear it now and then. You might remember, Bea, that Mary is a great lover of very stylish hats?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I asked her a few days before she broke her foot what had happened to the hatpin, because I hadn't seen her wearing it. She was vague about it and said that maybe she lost it. I thought she would have been devastated…”

Mickey interrupted again. “Devastated? Why? I mean, it is
just
a hatpin. It's pretty, and all that, but why would you think it was so important to her?”

Martha gazed at the pin and then looked up at Mickey. “Ah, Mr. Paxton, this is no simple hatpin. When Georgia was helping the residents here, she suggested that they have their jewelry appraised, so that after they die, their families would know the worth of individual pieces. Mary had this appraised. It's worth about $100,000.”

“Jeez!” I jumped in my chair.

Martha nodded. “That's why I thought it was odd, when I asked her if she wanted to report it missing, that she shook her head and walked away from me.” She paused. “I have to ask, how is it that
you
have the hatpin?”

“It was with Nana's things.”

“Nana? Nana took it?”

I stood up. “Hey! No! You know better than that, Martha! I don't know how it got there!”

Martha stood up, too, and reached a hand out to me. “Dear, I don't mean any insult to Nana. It's just that Alzheimer's patients often don't know what's theirs and what isn't, and they take things, but it's not really stealing. It's part of their confusion.” She patted my arm. We both sat back down.

Mickey took the hatpin from Martha. “So, it's worth a lot because of the one diamond? The diamond isn't that big, is it?”

Martha shook her head. “Well, actually, it's a good-sized diamond. Probably a carat. It could be worth a few thousand dollars, I would think.” She folded her hands on her desk. “But apparently the pin is valued so highly because of who it used to belong to.” We waited while she paused for effect. Martha had always had a flair for the dramatic. “No guesses, eh?”

“Martha, please,” I said.

“Look on the back of it again, closely. Do you see any initials?”

Mickey and I examined it together. “Just ‘Tarcelloni' and a zigzag line.”

“Mm.” She said. “Turn it around so that the line reads the other way.”

Mickey did, and then showed it to me. MM. I gasped,”Marilyn MonROE??” at the same time that Mickey said, “Mike MEYers?” We looked at each other. “Mike Meyers? Are you crazy?”

Martha's smile was positively angelic. “That's what Mary told me.”

We shook our heads. “What? What did she tell you?”

“That this belonged to Marilyn Monroe. That Joe DiMaggio bought it for her. And that Mary got it from an estate sale. She did some research and found a picture of Marilyn wearing a white hat and this pin was stuck in it.”

“Did she show you the picture?” Mickey asked.

“No. But like I said, Georgia was the one who had it appraised for her, and that's the figure I remember. One hundred thousand smackeroos.” Martha settled back in her chair and folded her arms, very satisfied with the sound of that last word sailing out of her mouth.

Mickey handed me the hatpin, pulled a notebook out of his sport coat pocket, and flipped it open. A pen from his inside front pocket followed.

I stared at him. “You have a notebook? You're going to take cop notes?”

He ignored me again, focusing on Martha. “When did you say that you noticed the pin was missing?”

Martha scrolled through her memory banks, eyes closed. “Shortly before your Nana died, Bea. We had a staff meeting to review patient care. I remember coming out into the hallway after that meeting and seeing Mary talking with Georgia and wearing her hat, sans pin.” She preened, enjoying the sound of “sans” as much as “smackeroos.”

Mickey snapped his notebook shut. “She was in Nana's room when she broke her foot. Maybe she had left the pin in there and was looking for it. ”

I chewed the inside of my right cheek. “We need to talk to Georgia Browning again. We need to verify the story behind this pin. And we need to know where Jake is.” I put the pin in my pocket.

“Do you mean Mary's son?” Martha pointed. “He's over in the common area, having some coffee.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Remembering that moment, I realize that this was it, when it all fell together for me. Not what was going on—that was still going to take a little time. No, but who Mickey Paxton really was. Is. Whatever.

When we looked at each other after hearing that Jake was in the next room, it only took two seconds for me to jump up and say, “Let's go,” while it took Mickey two seconds to jump up at the same time and say, “You stay here. I'll take a look.”

Usually I wouldn't go for that. I'd say, what the hell, mister, I've got every right to confront this guy and don't treat me like your little lady, you overblown piece of macho hoo-ha.

But it hit me all at once. I mean, three things hit me all at once. Two came from looking into those endless eyes of his. I could read them, and they said, one, I'm a cop, and I know how to handle this, and two, I don't want you to get hurt. I knew right then that Mickey really did care about me. The third thing I realized was that I actually did not want to go see Jake. I was afraid, and I was tired of not knowing what was going on and people getting killed and my life getting trashed. So I sat back down, which surprised Mickey a little. He hesitated before turning and walking down the hall, waiting, I think, for an outburst from me. But then he left, his hand moving around to the inside of his jacket. Jeez, I thought, is he packing? And is that even the right word?

Martha scrutinized me. “You don't look so good.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah, it's been a very long, weird, scary, surreal few days.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me, Martha, what does Jake look like?” I was holding on to the ridiculously slight hope that Bad Goombah Cop Jake maybe wasn't the same Jake as Mary Rosen's son.

“Big man, kind of reminds me of Hoss Cartwright from
Bonanza,
though he talks like he's from New Jersey. I've always had a preference for big men. Not very attractive, to tell you the truth, but like I said, he's a good son.” She suddenly leaned forward and tapped her finger on her desk. “I just remembered something. Georgia helped Jake get Mary into Tall Oaks. Another woman—very wealthy—had prepaid but didn't want to move in for several months, so Georgia suggested to the administration that they offer it at a reduced price to Mary in the interim. That way Jake could keep tabs on her until he could find her a permanent residence. I guess Georgia knew Jake from when she worked in Las Vegas.”

I coughed. “Shit.”

Then Mickey was back. He didn't look so hot, either.

“It's him, Annabelle. The big asshole. He didn't see me. I'm calling Brad. We'll get police here.” He started punching in the number, talking to Martha at the same time. “How long did Jake say he would be staying?”

“He wanted a cup of coffee while he figured out what to do next. She put her finger to her lips, thinking. “He said something else, a bit strange though.”

We both waited, watching her trace the outline of her lips. I never understand people who stop in the middle of telling you something, forcing you to say, “Yes?” or “And?” or “Oh, really, well why don't you hold that thought and tell us about it some other time. We'll call you tomorrow.” So I did a palms-up shrug with my shoulders, giving her my best JUST TELL US look.

“He said that he was sure she would have
gotten back
by now, and when I said, oh, so you know where she's been? He mumbled something like, no not really, just figured she'd be here.”

“He saw her in Las Vegas, Martha, and he and Mary might have been in touch since Mary ditched us.” Mickey dropped his chin and talked into his phone, asking Brad for some Santa Rosa police backup. Then he hung up and gave Martha instructions. “I'd like you to get the other people in the common area out of there. Can you think of a way to do this, that won't make Jake suspicious?”

“I can try, but I'm not sure what this is all about. You're scaring me. It's just Jake, after all.”

I would have spit out my coffee if I had been drinking any, but I wasn't, so I blew out some weird burble noise with my lips, like a horse. “
Just
Jake? He could have killed Mickey, and he kidnapped me at gunpoint.”

Martha brought her hand again to her mouth. “Jake? Really? I thought he was a policeman!”

We answered in unison. “He is.” Like that explained everything. She shook her head, and we stared without blinking back at her. Then she stood up.

“I'll get the others out of there and make sure they go back to their rooms, but really, I don't see the point of any of this. Jake's a nice man.” She smoothed her hair.

Mickey thanked her as she left us, then sat down. I told him about the Geogia-Jake-Mary connection. He reached for my knee, and I let him land his hand there. “We're getting close, Annabelle. You okay?”

“Not really. I'm a little shaky. Too much going on. I don't want to see Jake again. It freaks me out, knowing he's been here when Nana was here. Knowing he could have hurt her.”

“Why don't you go wait in the car?”

“Not gonna happen. You might need me.” I flexed my right bicep and smiled. “I helped capture the bastard last time, remember?”

Mickey smiled back. “Dental floss. Got any on ya' this time?”

“No. But are you packing?”

Mickey let out a little laugh. “You mean, is that a gun in my pocket or am I glad to see you?”

I laughed a little, too. “Yeah.”

“Both.”

“You didn't have it on you in Las Vegas. How…?”

“Jake or whoever raided our suite tossed it aside and left it. I found it before you could. I hid it and then put it in my suitcase when you weren't looking, before we left for the airport.”

“What is it?”

“A nine millimeter Glock. Seventeen rounds.”

“Wow.”

He kissed me softly. “The police will be here any minute. Then we'll figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Okay.” I kissed him gently, too. “You know what you said before, in Gumps?”

“You mean when you socked me in the nose?”

“Hey, I pretty much missed your nose, but…”

“Yes, I remember that vividly. It was only about ninety minutes ago, as I recall.”

“You meant it?”

Mickey nodded. “I'm in deep, Beatrice Annabelle, and I've not handled it well. But you've swept me away. Absolutely.”

I sighed. “I could have been a broom.”

He studied my face, holding my hands, our knees touching. “I am completely in love with you.”

Jake exploded into the room. He leaped toward Mickey and punched him over in his chair, landing on top of him. I fell backward, too, and got up to see Jake pummeling Mickey in the face. I screamed and jumped on Jake and beat him with my fists and scratched and even bit at him, wherever I could and however fast I could, but it didn't seem to be making much of a difference.

When I realized that Mickey was trying to roll away from Jake, and I wasn't helping by being on top of both of them, I hopped onto my feet. I screamed some more while I kicked Jake and fumbled for the hatpin in my pocket. I finally grabbed it like a dagger and lunged, sticking it deep into his neck. I'd never stuck anything into anyone before, but somehow I managed it. I jumped back, while Jake growled and rolled off of Mickey, twisting to pull the pin out of his neck.

Mickey scrambled to his feet and got his gun out of his shoulder holster, but his face was really bloody and he was staggering around. I hurriedly wrapped my arms around him from the back to steady him so that he could aim at Jake. I clearly missed Jake's carotid artery, because no massive jet of blood spurted from his neck, but blood was oozing out, and he was pissed. He swung toward us, on his feet now, and charged.

I called, “Halt! Police!” because Mickey hadn't pulled himself together yet. But Mickey knew Jake was coming toward us, and he clicked his Glock, which meant he was ready to shoot. I know this from far too many cop movies.

Jake stopped. “Who the fuck do ya' think ya' fuckin' are, ya fuckin' fuckheads?”

Mickey still wasn't talking, so I spit out, “We're the fucking po-fucking-leece, you fucking moron, so get down on your fucking knees and put your fucking hands behind your fucking head. Right now, you creepy fuck.” Sometimes in conversation I follow the lead of others.

Mickey began weaving, like he was losing his balance, so I braced myself behind him, let him lean against me, my arms now straight out in front alongside his, which were still holding the already clicked gun. I kept talking. “This gun is fucking already clicked, in case you didn't fucking hear that, Mr. Fuck.”

“Clicked? CLICKED? What the fuck.” He launched himself at us again.

Mickey was ready to shoot him. I was frightened to my core that various scenarios would play out, like he would miss and hit the wall behind Jake, which was probably the wall to some sweet old man's bedroom, and we'd end up killing the poor old man, and Mickey would fall down dead from loss of blood, and I would be strangled by Jake while I was trying to figure out how to reclick the Glock.

But none of that happened. A heavy voice from behind us ordered, “Drop it. Now. All of you. Down on the floor, slowly, face down, hands over your heads.”

Three guys in uniform came in, guns drawn on Mickey and me and Jake. Jake put his arms up in the air and said, “I'm police, Vegas.”

“Get down on the floor now. We'll get IDs in a minute.”

Mickey let his arms drop and fell to his knees. I managed to kneel down next to him, then we both were on the floor, and one of the new cops had taken his gun. Mickey said, “I'm Detective Paxton. I'm the one who called Brad Franklin and asked for you guys to get here. ID is in my pocket.”

Handcuffs came out and I was relieved, figuring Jake was being restrained. Then I felt my own hands being pulled behind my back and shoved into cuffs. “Hey! What are you doing?” I squirmed.

“Don't tell me,” the guy said, “you're a police officer, too?”

“No! But I'm…” I didn't know how to explain who I was in short order. “I'm this guy's girlfriend. And he's a good cop. And that guy over there, he's a bad cop.”

“Thanks for the recap, sister. We're all going to get up now and sit down, and I'll figure out who's who.”

I was pulled to my feet, as were Mickey and Jake, and they shepherded us into lobby chairs.

It only took a few minutes for them to check the IDs, confer with Brad on their phone, take the cuffs off of me and Mickey, and haul Jake off to the police station, where Brad would meet them to help with the questioning. They called an ambulance for Mickey, even though he said I could drive him to the hospital. I was still shaky, so I insisted on the ambulance. It arrived quickly. I sat in the back with him while the EMT mopped his face and checked his blood pressure. I got to sit there and hold his hand, because, as I explained to the EMT, I was his girlfriend.

“I'm his girlfriend.”

“Yes, I know, third time you've told me that.”

Mickey smiled.

And that's when I realized that the last time I saw the hatpin was when Jake pulled it out of his neck.