Chapter 5-2
1555 Words
really“What about the unknown woman who died?”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” He disconnected.
* * *
“Good and ample choices. Sam makes the best.” Ald nodded to the dozen freshly-baked boxed treats on an immaculate desk and took another sip of a vanilla latte (he, like me, had a preference for sweet coffee drinks). “But you"ll have to come up with better bribes than A-1 coffee and scrumptious donuts, Fonne.”
I slipped back on a chrome chair with a thin upholstered seat; a panel of nails would have proven more comfortable. “A DQ strawberry sundae? Crispy golden shrimp wonton in Chinatown? Or food-truck fish tacos?”
“I"m thinking Alan Wong"s—one of those outstanding prix-fixe dinners with wine pairings.”
A Reynalda-Fonne water-buffalo snort escaped. “You"re becoming quite the food and wine snob.”
“I"m honoring my deceased brother"s last wish,” he said wryly.
His twin brother, an advertising exec, had died late last year of pleomorphic liposarcoma, a cancer belonging to soft-tissue sarcomas (or tumors); both rare and challenging to treat, it had ended his life within twenty months of discovery. As there"d been no other family—his wife had died a decade ago—Ald was the sole beneficiary, receiving a three-bedroom Florida condo and sizeable savings account. A letter had also requested that Ald endeavor to learn more about fashion, wine and food, art and culture so he might appreciate the finer things in life.
After another sip, he leaned back and folded strong hands over a chest that appeared to have become broader the last few months. “You"re looking for updates on the fire and victims.”
“I am.”
“Alan Wong"s?”
Information had a price, evidently. I nodded in agreement.
“Dinner tonight—eight works for me.”
“If I can swing a reservation, sure,” I said dryly.
“You"ll swing one,” he affirmed with a breezy smile.
I shifted on the uncomfortable chair. “What do you have?”
“As you know, Mr. Charcoal-Broiled has been identified as Carlos Kawena.” Sadness flashed in those striking Mayan-blue eyes. “The second victim was a once rising queenpin known by many names, including Metro Montana.”
“Montana in honor of Tony?”
“As in Mr. Scarface himself,” he replied glibly as he removed a haupia-filled malasada and eyed it circumspectly.
“There"s no arsenic.”
Ald"s full lips pulled into a brash smile and he took a bite.
“What other names did she go by?”
“Peppa Stone in Dallas and Lila Deadwood in L.A. She was born Mary-Louise Crabtree. Other than she wasn"t using any of those names here, we don"t yet know anything about her doings here.”
“Was Carlos into drugs or something criminal?” I asked disbelievingly.
“Not likely, but as you often say, never say never.” He smiled darkly.
An eyebrow arched.
“We"re checking the guest list. Only one artist was present at the 6-tu-8, a guy named Bizz Waxx, real name Theodore Grubb. He"s into guerilla art. I don"t get it myself, but he appears to have quite a following.”
tu“Had Crabtree surrendered the aspiration to be a queenpin? Or was she hoping to set up shop here?”
“It"s unclear, but I"m going to say it"s unlikely. She took two bullets to the chest eighteen months ago. Apparently, from a detective I just spoke to in L.A., it was a wake-up call.” He pulled a dossier from the topmost drawer and passed it.
Inside were several photos of Metro-Peppa-Lila-Mary-Louise during the latter years of her young life. In her late teens, she was a slim and pretty bottle-blonde, but hardness had already started to form around close-set olive eyes and small lips that bore a sullen cast. A brunette in her early twenties, Mary-Louise sat on a mud-splattered ATV, scowling at the camera; the hardness had deepened. In her mid-twenties, the rising queenpin was a brassy blonde, twenty pounds heavier, with a long thin scar on the upper left cheek. Standing at a beachside bar, a mix of emotions—anger, regret, sadness—crossed her sunburned oval face.
Selecting a sugar-dusted malasada, I nibbled as I collected thoughts. “Rumor has it Carlos had financial issues.”
“He"d borrowed heavily to open the gallery.”
“I was under the impression he had money.”
“According to a source that shall remain nameless,” he disclosed with a don"t-dare-pursue-it stare, “Carlos had made a couple of bad stock-market decisions last year, a field he had limited experience with.”
nameless“He didn"t have a broker?”
“The word of a business associate had seemingly been enough,” Ald stated dryly with a shake of the head. “Add to that a negative cash flow and mismanaged funds, and yeah, he had financial issues. Oh, there was a residence in California and one on Maui, a humble abode that I believe belonged to the parents. He was trying to sell the one on the Mainland, but there were snags. Something to do with a former un-happy partner.”
un“As in a lover "partner"?”
“As in.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
Gauging from the smug smile and gaze, he wasn"t going to provide it. I sighed and sipped my latte.
“You don"t seem your usual focused, cocky self.”
I glared. “I"m far from cocky, Hives.” The name “Hives” had been bestowed upon the detective by our last client, Buddy Feuer. She and Gerald Ives had gotten along as well as a Hatfield and McCoy.
He chuckled. “You and your colleagues have done okay in past. The case has only started. You"ll be on your meandering, fixated paths before long.”
Hopefully.
“Have you heard from Ricky J?”
“No,” came my crisp response.
“Good. He"s dirt, Fonne.”
“So you"ve repeatedly said.” I met his concentrated gaze. “Could I get a guest list for Carlos" 6-tu-8, please?”
tu“Lucky you. I happen to have one handy.” He pulled it from a drawer, glancing at a blue-dial Citizen watch as he did so. “I have a meeting. Call me with a dinner time as soon as you know it.”
Hopping to his feet, he scanned my face, almost smiled (or had a facial tick thing going), and hastened into the corridor.
* * *
Gail Murdock, Administrative Specialist at HPD, entered as I was tucking the box of malasadas into a plastic bag. What had started out as a professional association had evolved into friendship. In fact, she often jokingly (or maybe not) asked if she could join the agency roster that currently consisted of Rey Linda and I, and Eddy Galazie.
Eddy, formerly nicknamed “Red Head” due to an amazing head of r****h-red curls, was the nephew of the aforesaid deceased entrepreneur, Jimmy Picolo (also reputed loanshark and racketeer, in case I"d neglected to mention this). He was also what some might call “challenged”. The poor kid had suffered a head injury at the age of eight, which slowed him down in some respects, but not from him giving his all to every task.
He worked for the agency three half days a week, cleaning, organizing, and running errands. Sometimes he"d go to the condos to feed Button and Bonzo, staying longer than necessary, but we were fine with that because his fondness for, and devotion to, animals was appreciated.
“Did he give you a hard time again?” The reedy woman of fifty leaned into the doorframe, sparkling eyes peering over the rims of round, black-rimmed glasses. Today, they were olive, her natural color; other times, they were emerald or cobalt. As always, she sported bright funky clothes: cranberry capris, a lemon-yellow blouse with a red-rose theme, and strappy canvas sandals. Glossy beet-red lips matched spiky beet-red hair.
“To be honest, I"m not sure.” I tossed my half-empty latte cup in a trash can under an L-shaped desk of nondescript wood. “But it"s costing me dinner at Alan Wong"s.”
“Fan-see.”
“Pri-see.”
“But damn tast-tee.”
I grinned and grabbed a faux-leather Guess satchel bag from the corner of the sofa. “How was your sister and Santa Monica?”
“Sara-Lee"s doing well, as always, and Santa Monica"s awesome as ever.”
“It"s always great connecting with family,” I said wistfully, thinking another trip to North Carolina to visit with Mom and Quincy, my nephew, might be in order soon.
“Rumor has it you"re working on the galleries-arson case.”
I nodded.
“Need help?” she asked with a pretty, toothy smile.
“We can always use your stupendous researching skills,” I grinned. “How about checking into Carlos Kawena"s financial history for the last couple of years, to start? And you may as well poke around James-Henri Ossature"s, too.”
“I"m on it.”
- Writer
