Point Doom (12 page)

Five minutes later, back beside Vikki in her demo, after telling the pretty girl, Thanks for waiting, I decided to go back to the subject of Max. “Hey,” I said, “you know that conversation with Max is still bugging me.”

Vikki rolled her eyes. “Really? Why?”

“No one at Sherman Toyota could have known about my arrest record. It was not public knowledge and it’s only available on a restricted database.”

“Did you ask Max how he knew?”

“Sure. But Max is a bitch. Too many years as a car business yes-man. He can’t make up his mind if he’s a goddamn vampire or a game-show host. His head’s so far up Rhett’s ass that he’ll never see daylight again. Max was no help.”

“Oh, so now it’s Detective Fiorella again. Hey, you don’t think somebody actually killed Woody? The TV just talked about finding his body.”

We were on our way up Washington Boulevard toward Centinela. My place was a five-minute drive from FedEx.

“It’s the blues’ job now,” I said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

A knowing smile crossed her face. “So tell me, mister jack-of-all-trades, out of curiosity, what does a man like you—a man with so many varied skills—do best?”

I had to smile again. “You may be on your way to finding out.”

I TOLD THE
blonde girl where to turn and we pulled into the driveway at my apartment house on Short. I knew that at this time of day there would be almost no cars in the parking area. I directed Vikki to slip her demo car in under the building’s overhang garage. It was three-sided and private.

“Well, here we are,” she said, smiling, popping the gear shift into park. “Door-to-door service.”

Without saying anything I leaned over and kissed her. It quickly turned into a deep kiss—all tongue. She didn’t pull away.

Half a minute later my hand was under her sweater, unhitching her bra. Then she pulled back. “Is that what you want?” she breathed.

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s a start.”

“Okay, then, let’s try doing what you want—but, shouldn’t we go to my place? I have a king-size bed with pretty pillows.”

“I like cars,” I said. “I like doing things in cars.”

Vikki smiled. “You sure?”

“I like it right here just fine.”

“Sooo . . . what do you want us to do?” she breathed. “Tell me.”

My tongue went from her mouth to her exposed tits. “Pull down your slacks. Then pull down your panties.”

She leaned back from me then looked me in the eyes. “Here?”

“Right here,” I said. “Right now.”

Her dress slacks came down, revealing frilly pink bikini panties. She looked at me, breathing hard. “Do you like these? I like wearing sexy underwear,” she whispered.

“Let me see what’s behind ’em. Pull ’em down,” I said.

I watched as Vikki removed her heels, then she slid her slacks off, then the panties. Her monkey was cleanly shaved.

I tossed the clothes into the back seat.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to my place? This would be more fun there,” she breathed.

I smiled at her. “Here’s just fine.”

I picked up her hand then selected her two middle fingers. “Wet these in your mouth,” I said.

“Why?” she whispered.

“You’ll see.”

She put her fingers to her lips.

“All the way in,” I said.

After she’d finished wetting the fingers, I reached down and across and spread her legs. “Put them inside. All the way inside,” I said.

I watched as she worked her fingers into her pussy. Deep inside. She began breathing hard. “What now?” she wanted to know.

“Take ’em out.”

Vikki slowly removed her fingers.

“Now, stick them inside my mouth,” I said.

I watched her eyes as I sucked the juice from her fingers.

“You like that, don’t you?” she whispered. “Does that make you happy?”

“Yeah, I like it. I like it a lot.”

“C’mon, let’s go to my place. For real. I want to do this right.”

“No. We’re doing fine right here.”

“Hey, you’re smiling. You hardly ever smile. I’m making you smile, aren’t I, Fiorella?”

I reached down between her legs and located the seat’s adjustment lever, then pushed hers all the way back. “Turn around, with your ass toward me,” I whispered.

“Whatever you say, Fiorella. Whatever you say.”

AFTER VIKKI WAS
gone, after cashing my final paycheck and buying a pack of Lights, a D-Coke, and three Pop-Tarts at the corner bodega, I picked up my cardboard salesman’s box from Vikki’s trunk that I’d hidden in my parking space and carried it inside the apartment.

Once I’d locked the door I opened all the widows to let in the cool air coming off the Pacific. It had all been too easy, me and Vikki. First the turn-down, then the submissive slut act. Something was off: the body language. Something wasn’t right.

FIFTEEN

I
downed the tarts with swigs from the Coke. Then I punched in Carr’s number. One ring.

“Whaz up, JD?”

“Someone—I don’t know who—has probably been running me through NCIC and the other state and fed databases. Somehow I was made on an old arrest. It so happens that arrest was squared long ago and only shows up in one place I know of. I need to find out who’s been requesting information on me. I need ID, e-mail—the package, and I need to know how whoever it was managed to access an off-limits database.”

“That’ll take time. That’s not what we do here. I’ll have to shake the bushes, make some calls.”

“My car was torched the other day and I’ve been tagged by someone—probably someone with computer smarts. There might be a connection to what I’m working here.”

“Forty-eight hours. It’s a deuce up front now, plastic only. And another deuce on the back end.”

“I can’t use my plastic. I’m hot. I’m off the grid. Help me out, Carr.”

“This ain’t charity, Slick!”

“Give me a day and I’ll wire you the money.”

“Done.”

I gave Carr the e-mail address I never use. It could only be accessed through the New York Botanical Gardens website.

“Sit tight,” he said. “I’m on it.” Then he hung up.

AFTER I’D CLICKED
off my cell phone it immediately rang again. I clicked it on. “Forget something?” I barked into the receiver.

“Fiorella?” a clip-toned voice asked.

“Who’s this?”

“Detective Archer.”

“Jesus, Archer, what now? You guys are way too far up my ass.”

Archer began working me. Clearly, he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. “More details, is all. Cop stuff,” he said. “Just take a few minutes.”

“The way you guys go over details ends up with me feeling more and more like your chump. For instance, you searched my apartment with no probable cause. A bullshit toss, Archer. So just leave me out of this from now on. You’ll get dick when you dial this number.”

“Calm down, hothead! Me and Taboo are just doing our job—trying to put the pieces together.”

“Fine. If you’ve got a question for me, then ask it. I’m not your bitch and I don’t deserve the heat. Quit dancing with me.”

“That’s the problem. You pretend like you’re cooperating but you give us zip. Your answers to questions are always nonanswers.”

“Hey, try some different questions.”

“We were going over the inventory from your friend’s apartment again. One of our victim’s socks is missing. A dirty sock. How about that? Do you know anything about that?”

“That’s the same kind of question, Detective. The answer is that I have my own dirty socks. I don’t need anyone else’s.”

“Screw you, Fiorella.”

“Is that all?”

“No it isn’t,” Archer hissed. “Here’s something different. Something else came up—something else you left out.”

“What would that be?”

“You are a former private investigator, apparently. You never mentioned that occupation.”

“So what? You never asked. That was a long time ago. L.A. is a different planet.”

“Let’s talk straight here. Let’s cut it right to the bone. That be okay with you?”

“You mean, as opposed to you working me like some kinda street rockhead slammed up against a black-and-white? I’m listening.”

“There’s something more than a little off about you—something kinky. I can smell it. I think you sort of fell into this thing and . . . ”

“And what?”

“After Taboo found out that you did your detective work in New York, he ran a known-acquaintances search. That stuff set off quite a few bells. Bottom line, we all need to sit down again. Now. Today.”

“Will I need an attorney, Archer? Because that’s the direction we’re heading in here. I’ll make the call after we hang up.”

“You know people—people in New York. You have, or used to have, interesting friends.”

“I’m a car salesman, Archer. Period. My friend is dead. Period. You, Detective, are talking out your ass.”

“
Were
a car salesman. As of today.”

“Fuck you, Archer!” I said, then clicked the Off button on my cell.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
now carless, I took the northbound bus across Centinela Avenue to Wilshire Boulevard, then transferred to the westbound Santa Monica bus. Both rides took over an hour.

I got off at Lincoln Boulevard and walked east to Woody’s apartment building.

When I got to the corner I looked down the block and saw that a line of yellow cop tape was stretched around the entrance to his apartment house and there was still a patrol car parked in front.

Woody had lived in an older building and it didn’t surprise me to find out there wasn’t a garage at all. I just hadn’t noticed. I needed to find his car. Apparently, my friend had been a street parker, a rough task in Santa Monica without a fake Handicapped sticker. In exchange for the lower apartment rent and no garage, street parking residents have the privilege of spending up to two hours a day looking for a legal spot in their neighborhood.

I began circling the block on foot from the opposite direction, searching for a red four-door Honda, hoping the blues hadn’t yet gotten around to IDing the car and picking it up.

No soap.

So I widened my search until I located Woody’s car, with a parking ticket on the windshield, tucked into a spot on Eleventh Street, two blocks north of Arizona. My luck was holding.

No pedestrians were nearby, so, after pulling the ticket off the windshield, I stuck my friend’s car key into the door.

I fired up the motor, then made a U-turn in the direction of Ocean Avenue, putting as much distance between me and Woody’s building as possible. Five minutes later, on Ocean Avenue, near the jogging path on the cliffs above the Pacific, I found a spot and pulled in.

My friend kept his car, like his apartment, very neat—there was nothing on the seats or the floor, no trash, no papers. Even the plastic black floor mats were scrubbed clean.

In the glove compartment were a few soft-rock CDs and a porn DVD. No Cole Porter.

I put the stuff back in the glove compartment, then began running my hand in the crack between the backrest and seat cushion of the passenger seat. I came up with two round, light-orange pills. They looked familiar. I remembered seeing something like them before, after the incident with my ex’s boyfriend. The pills had been prescribed for me but I never took them.

My friend Woody did not take any meds—nothing stronger than Tylenol and antacids—so I stuffed the two tablets into my pants pocket.

The trunk of the car was like the rest of the stuff in Woody’s life before he died: clean and neat. In it was a gym bag containing workout clothes and a razor, aftershave, and deodorant. That was it.

HEADING SOUTH ON
Lincoln Boulevard I drove toward the impound lot on Glencoe Avenue in Marina del Rey, the neighborhood where I’d been a few hours earlier with Vikki. Bruffy’s Towing was where my mom’s torched car had been towed.

I parked Woody’s Honda down the block and walked back to the fenced-in impound entrance. It had been over ten days since my car fire and I was hoping like hell that Mom’s shitbox would still be in the tow yard. If it was, I would soon have what I needed.

I showed ID to the guy at the booth, who was yakking on his cell phone, pinching the thing between his shoulder and his ear. He typed my name into his computer while he continued yakking. My last name was a match for the legal owner and the guy looked up and pointed. “Aisle three,” he said. “About halfway down.”

I’d caught another lucky break.

I made my way through the ocean of damaged and rotting metal until I found Mom’s burned-up Honda backed into a slot in the middle of a long row.

There were surveillance cameras on both ends of the lane but by stooping down I was pretty sure I was out of camera view.

Using a Phillips screwdriver I’d kept in the glove box, I took off the license plates, which hadn’t been damaged in the car fire.

I tucked them inside my jacket, stood up, then walked back to the exit gate. So far, so good.

IT WAS TIME
to do some grunt detective work with the pills in my pocket, but first I’d deal with Woody’s car.

I drove his Honda back to Short Avenue, parked, and waited, three buildings away from my apartment house. Twenty minutes later, when I was reasonably sure there was no one on the building—no unmarked cars on the street and no activity—I went inside my apartment.

At the bottom of a half-empty cardboard box, in the closet that Archer had opened but had been a little too quick in searching, I found what I had hoped would still be there: a bogus New York City detective’s badge I hadn’t touched in five years. It was in the pocket of one of my wadded-up, out-of-date sports jackets.

Needing a safe place to swap out the license plates, I drove the Honda to the intersection of Culver Boulevard and the Marina Freeway to an unmanned self-storage lot.

Parking Woody’s car in one of the many vacant spaces that faced Ballona Creek at the side of the building, I switched the plates: my mom’s Honda for his. They were the same year. Barring a VIN number check, I had my own ride again. I was in business—at least until Archer and Afrika sorted out the details. That’d probably take a couple more days.

My hands were shaking. It wasn’t my nerves or too much caffeine. It was something else. I needed a sugar fix. So I pulled a five from my pants and fed it into a soda-vending machine outside the storage units, got change in quarters, and bought myself two nice sugary Pepsis. My father had been a serious diabetic for many years before his death. I’d been told more than once that I was headed down that road. Without the booze, these days I often had an intense craving for sweets—whatever sugar I could get.

As I was standing beside the vending machine’s alcove, drinking the first of my Pepsis, a man and a little girl came out of the storage building’s double doors, pushing a wide, four-wheel dolly loaded down with half a dozen large cardboard boxes. The girl was seven or eight years old and on the thin side. The man, who I took for her dad, was midthirties, unshaved, and dotted with tattoos. He had a red drinker’s face and was wearing a camouflage T-shirt and a blue Dodgers cap.

Their tan, beat-up SUV was parked three spaces from Woody’s Honda. When they got to the car, pushing the dolly, I could hear the guy hissing at his kid under his breath: “Stupid! Stupid little bitch! Didn’t I tell you just to leave the goddamn teddy bears? What’s your fucking problem?! You’re still a baby—a moron. You’ll never grow up!”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Screw it!” he yelled. “Just stand there and don’t touch anything—you dumb twat!”

After he’d loaded the boxes inside his SUV he threw his arms in the air and turned back to the kid. “Where’s the fucking microwave?”

“You left it, Daddy. It’s back in the room.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me! That’s one of the things we came for. What the matter with you?”

“I guess I forgot, Daddy.”

“Shit! Okay okay, just stay here and watch the car. Do you think you can do that, stupid?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“I’ll be right back.”

AFTER HE’D DISAPPEARED
into the building I crossed the pavement to throw one of my Pepsi cans away in a large metal bin that was near the little girl. She was sitting on a metal bench against the side of the building, her hands in her lap. We were five feet apart.

“Hi,” I said, popping a new Pepsi.

“Hi.”

“Was that your daddy who went inside?”

“Yeah, that’s my dad.”

“So—you must be moving. Is that why you’re here today?”

“Uh-uh. We moved two weeks ago. Before school started. We’re picking up some stuff that didn’t fit in the truck.”

I sat down near her on the bench. This kid was very cute and sweet. “Where did you guys move to? Close by?” I asked.

“We moved to Playa del Rey, near the beach. They just painted our apartment. It’s blue. I love blue. My mom and dad are separated now and I’m going to a new school.”

“Hey, that’s nice. Do you like the new school?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. My teacher is Ms. Alvarez. She’s nice.”

Then the little girl’s eyes drifted to something on my shirt and she smiled. “I like your cross,” she said. “I like jewelry. It’s really pretty.”

I fingered the silver crucifix hanging from my neck. It had fallen outside my shirt. I’d owned the thing for twenty-five years and never took it off. It had been a high school graduation present from my mom. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s kind of my lucky charm.”

“It’s really pretty.”

I smiled at the kid. “Hey, do you have a lucky charm?” I said.

“I have dolls on my bed at home but I don’t have a real necklace.”

“Do you want to see it?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I worked the cross off over my head and collected it and the chain in the palm of my hand. “Open your hands,” I said. “Put them together and make them into a cup.”

She extended both cupped hands and I dropped the cross and chain into them.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah, I think so too. You know,” I said, “you’re a smart girl and you’re really pretty too. You should have a lucky charm. My lucky charm has protected me for a long time. When is your next birthday?”

“I’ll be nine in two months. Maybe I’ll get one like that when I’m nine or ten—when I’m older.”

“That’s a long time to wait—two months. That’s a long time to go without a lucky charm. A charm is a thing you can count on to make you feel better when you’re sad—like when your daddy yells at you. You just hold it tight and then you feel better right away.”

“My daddy gets upset. Mom says he gets upset too much.”

“I know what we can do,” I said. “You can have mine. Would you like to do that?”

“Sure. But it’s yours. You won’t have one if you give it to me.”

“That’s okay,” I said, “I don’t need it anymore and I’ve been looking for someone to give it to. Someone who needs good luck. I want you to have it.”

I took the chain and cross from her hands and slipped it over her head on to her neck. Her smile lit up the parking lot and could have stopped the traffic on Culver Boulevard.