A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (35 page)

CHAPTER 30

Detective Hernandez must have been in his car already when he called. The Cathedral City police department was fifteen minutes away, he was there in ten. Coffee was ready by the time the doorbell rang and Jessica let him in. They sat in the morning room off the kitchen, sipping coffee as Jessica laid it all out on the table for him. The detective was reasonably quiet as she spok
e. He gasped when she talked about her chitchat with Mr. P, but merely shook his head and continued to drink his coffee. “I’ll admit it, I’ve been out there stirring the pot, Detective.”

“Stirring the pot, huh? I take it that means you’ve added a new tactic to complement your reliance on kismet as the key to sleuthing. That’s what you called it, righ
t? Wasn’t it kismet that drove you into the clutches of Roger Stone’s murderer? Walking into Mr. P’s office and informing the man that you have an eyewitness who saw him murder your friend qualifies as stirring the pot, alright!” He set his mug down loudly. Jessica envisioned steam pouring from his ears, like a character in an old Saturday morning cartoon show.

“I’ve already had this conversation with another detective friend of mine. I was on the man’s radar before that confrontation
in his office. My car was trashed earlier in the day, and I presume the ‘back off bitch’ message was from Mr. P. He was already tracking me, and that poor bastard Chet Davis, too, apparently.”

“
Add Bobby Simmons to the list of guys on Mr. P’s radar. He also turned up dead within a few days of you stirring the pot. I’ll tell you what we know so far about the end to Bobby Simmons’ so-called life. Maybe you can help me make the connection between his murder and the newest psychopath in your life.”

The “ne’er-do-well,” as Detective Hernandez referred to him, was out on parole after serving two years in state prison for felon
y drug possession with intent to sell. That was a second drug-related offense for the “loser” who had lost his job with the casino several years before after that earlier drug bust. He had done a stint in drug treatment, like Chester Davis, but for heroin, not methamphetamine addiction.

Bobby Simmons didn’t die of a drug overdose, though. He was found dead with a bullet
hole in his head, sitting in a used car he had recently purchased with cash. There was no sign he struggled with his assailant, who shot him at close range. His lap was full of drugs, including an array of pills, a balloon containing maybe a gram of black tar heroin, and a baggy full of marijuana. With the car parked in a secluded spot near an abandoned house high up in Cathedral Cove, the scene had all the markings of a drug deal gone wrong, but who knew for sure?

Bobby’s wallet was missing and he had no money on him, even though he had just cashed a meager paycheck from the Super Cuts where he worked. Of course, a big chunk of his cash would have gone to pay for the drugs found in his possession
.

“His boss at Super Cuts thought Bobby had one of those pay-as-you-go cell phones, but if he did, that was missing too. So maybe it was a drug deal that turned into a
robbery, but I don’t think so. The back seat of his car was loaded with bags and boxes, a pricey pair of sneakers sitting right there in plain view, alongside an Xbox or some such thing and a stack of CDs. Why not take that, too, and maybe clean out the car. You know, why not take the rest of the bags and boxes in the car, if robbery was the motive? Why leave the drugs with a dead guy? The whole thing could have been staged. A clean, execution-style hit with a little bit of drugs and a little bit of robbery thrown in to confuse things.” Hernandez pushed his empty cup toward Jessica distractedly without actually asking for more coffee. She refilled the mug as he continued to speak.

“Mr. Simmons may have been planning to hit the road, despite the repercussions for his status as a parolee. The car he bought last week was loaded with what must have been all his worldly possessions. That included fairly new household goods I figure he bought to set himself up after his relea
se from prison. You know, pots and pans, dishes, sheets and towels, ordinary stuff, but kind of new?” The detective paused, seeming reluctant to continue.

“There were personal papers too, and what could only be described, Jessica, as the crud’s putrid scrapbook. Lewd pictures of a number of young-looking females. Some of those photos featured the man himself. I’m not talking about do-it-yourself Polaroids. These were professional. If you can call trash like that professional. There was also an old VHS tape starring a youthful Bobby Simmons letting it all hang out, so to speak. Apparently Mr. Simmons aspired to a career in the theater and had at least one gig of the X-rated variety. Now that I’ve seen your photo of Kelly, I’m pretty sure she was in
some of the still shots. She looked younger than 19. It could have been the hair and clothes: pig tails and those little shorty pajamas. I’d guess more like 14 or 15 than 19, Jessica.”

Jessica felt like she might heave: too much coffee on an empty stomach, but also too much filth in too short a time. She placed her elbows on the table in front of her an
d rested her head in her hands.

“Can I get you something to eat, Detective? I need some crackers or chips, something.”

“If you’ve got them handy I could eat.”

A tub of Bernadette’s homemade salsa sat on a shelf in the fridge. She had made enough of the scrumptious spicy dip for an imminent meeting of the cat pack. Jessica had summoned the group to her house to debrief one last time. After that, she planned to call them off the trail of Mr. P and the doc. Bobby Simmons’ death had tipped the scales. It was time to abandon their efforts to solve the mystery of what had happened to Tommy’s poor dead sister. She did not want one of them to be added to the mounting body count.

What they had learned so far was hard to bear. Whether she was a drug addict or not, Kelly clearly had ties to loathsome characters like Bobby Simmons and Mr.P. Jessica felt sucker punched. Like she was fifteen again, caught following blithely along behind the wild and out of control girl, right into the hands of Mr. P.

Jessica set a tray with a bowl of salsa and a bag of chips on the table in front of them. She had also brought them water to drink. With Bernadette’s salsa, they’d need it. She picked up the conversation where they left off.

“Did I mention the fact that among the possessions found with Arnold Dunne at the border was a substantial quantity of illicit pornographic material? Apparently, underage women figured prominently in the triple XXX flicks and rags. That might mean there’s a connection.”

“It
might, Jessica. Guys like Bobby Simmons dabble in a lot of raunchy activities. It could be a general fascination with corruption or maybe it’s hard to satisfy one vice without picking up another one.” He dug into the bowl of salsa with a chip, his eyes brightening as he took a bite of the fresh, savory concoction.

“Your friend, Kelly, and her boyfriend were both mixed up in the kind of modeling that’s tied to the porn business. Unless Bobby Simmons and Arnold Dunne knew each other, there’s no reason to believe they were dealing with the same producers of that smut. More than a decade has elapsed since those photos were taken of Bobby
Simmons and those girls. So the fact both sleaze balls have porn in their possession doesn’t necessarily connect back to your Mr. P and his sidekick, Doctor Death”

“He’s not my...” Jessica began wearily.

“I know, I know. He’s not
your
Mr. P. My point is, you’ve got nothing, and he seems pretty intent on keeping it that way. Even if this does lead back to him, you do get that the p in Mr. P stands for psychopath, right?” Watching her intently, the detective scarfed down another chip loaded with salsa, then took a gulp of cool water as a chaser.

Jessica nodded in agreement, as she forced herself to chew and swallow the chip she had put into her mouth. Her throat was bone dry. Her stomach was in kno
ts. Here she was again, toe-to-toe with a mad man. Terrified, she also raged at the idea of backing down. The bastard had gotten away with murdering her friend, and was at it again.

“This is primo salsa, by the way. Will you give up the recipe if I offer to go through everything that degenerate Bobby Simmons left behind and identify anything that has to do with your friend?”

“No.” That sounded rather abrupt. “Actually, Detective, I’d welcome any information you can come up with by going through that deadbeat’s belongings. As much as I dread seeing them, I should get copies of those pictures of Kelly. You can skip the ones of her dead boy toy. As for the salsa, I honestly don’t know the exact recipe. It’s one of St. Bernadette’s many secrets. Yet another mystery I’m not likely to solve in my lifetime.” Just then, they heard the door from the garage into the house open, and the lady herself bustled into the room.

“Speak of the devil,” Jessica said loudly enough for Bernadette to hear.

“Jessica, that’s not nice to call Detective Hernandez the devil. He’s not
that
bad.” Bernadette set bags of groceries on a counter, then walked through the kitchen to the morning room where they sat. “Nice to see you again, Detective,” she said, looking from him to Jessica and back again. “Isn’t it?”

“Bobby Simmons is dead, Bernadette. He was killed just a few days after Tommy, Jerry, and I spoke to him at the soup kitchen. We must have spooked him, because Detective Hernandez tells me he was packed and ready to hit the road when someone put him out of his misery.”

“Not another murder, ay que Dios mìo! On top of all the trouble you’ve been having, Jessica. Thank God Peter has his guerrero, that warrior man, sitting in the front yard again.” She crossed herself as she spoke. “Did she tell you about her trouble, Detective? Those gangsters with the pistol she had to take away from them.”

“Oh, I heard about it. The way I heard it, she didn’t just take that pistol, but made sure all the bullets went away, too. Right i
nto the front of that sweet low rider they were driving.” He abandoned his stern demeanor. “Okay, I admit it. I wish I could have been there to see that.”

“Better you than me, Detective. Bernadette, our detective friend here loves your salsa. He wants the recipe.”

“¡Claro que si! Of course, Detective, I’ll have Jessica send it to you.” She bent toward them and lowered her voice, “The key is good tequila.” She smiled angelically as she made her way back through the kitchen and out the door to the garage. “You going to help me with the groceries, Jessica, or do I have to go drag that big guard man away from his post?”

Jessica sat there with her mouth o
pen. “You’d better go help the little lady. I don’t want her to change her mind about giving me that recipe.” He stopped talking and shoveled the last of the salsa into his mouth with gusto. Besides, I have to go. I’ll get those photos to you as soon as I get back to my office. I’ll send you a copy of the evidence log once the miserable slob’s belongings have been inventoried. You can tell me what you want to take a closer look at, okay?”

“Sure, Detective. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Go! Go help Bernadette. I can find my way out.”

The detective gave her a jaunty wave as he moved toward the front of the house. Jessica headed ou
t to the garage, stunned by what had just transpired. She wasn’t sure which was more startling, the detective’s sudden burst of charm or Bernadette’s willingness to give up the secret to her salsa. Jessica felt a surge of hope that someone could stop the scurrilous Mr. P and his still elusive ally, the doc. Preferably before they could kill again. Or order up another murder, as seemed more their style. At this point, there still was no clear evidence for their involvement in Kelly’s death or anyone else’s murder, for that matter. Yet she was keenly aware of their presence. Mr. P and the doc hovered like dark, misbegotten shadows.

CHAPTER 31

Friday night with Paul was a bright
spot in an otherwise distressing week of fights and frights. Jessica was distracted, but Paul was so thoroughly engaging, she soon felt lifted up out of the malaise that had settled in after meeting with Detective Hernandez. The down-and-out around her were dropping like flies: two dead and one in the hospital within the week. The reprobate who lost his hoodie by the side of the road was probably in need of some medical assistance, too. She wasn’t sure what that much pepper spray might have done to his scrawny ass, but it couldn’t have been good.

Frank called Friday morning to let her know that Arnold Dunne was stable but the doctors had asked that he give the man another day to recover. Frank and his partner agreed and were driving down to San Diego on Sunday to interview Mr. Dunne. If they found out anything interesting about how he happened to put up that money for Chester Davis, Frank would be back in touch. Especially
if they learned anything that led back to Mr. P or his elusive partner-in-crime, the doc.

Meanwhile, Frank and his colleagues at the Sherriff’s department had identified one of the punks with whom Jessica had the run-in in Riverside. He was a small-time hustler by the name of Justin Baker. His last known address was actually in LA. Frank asked his fellow officers to se
e if Baker was tied to the other investigation involving Jessica Huntington, undertaken at the Brentwood estate. Lo and behold, they found a link. The low rider turned up in the video surveillance tapes.

In addition, they found blood on the fence surrounding
the house, along with a few fibers from torn clothing, indicated someone had tried to scale the fence. Not realizing, until too late, that the spikes were more than ornamental, they had left a bloody mess behind. Fibers on the fence matched trace on the doll’s clothes at the curb. More importantly, preliminary analysis of DNA from the blood at the Brentwood estate led them to Justin Baker. As did DNA taken from the saliva on the mouthpiece he spit out on the exit ramp into Riverside. They could place him at both scenes. Like Chester Davis and Arnold Dunne, Justin Baker had a long rap sheet of low level misdeeds. Rather prolific for a twenty-two-year-old, but nothing that had landed him in the kind of trouble he now faced.

The police in Riverside and surrounding counties had orders to pick up Baker for the attempted B & E and vandalism at the Brentwood site, as well as attempted kidnapping using a firearm, and arson for torching the low rider in Riverside. He also fit Dick Tatum’s physical description of the man who had lobbed a Molotov cocktail at his car. If Dick could I.D. him they’d nail him for that in
cident too, and for driving a stolen vehicle torched later on. Frank was hopeful they’d catch up with the scurrying rat, and by asking him the right questions might get closer to Mr. P.

That night, it was a relief to watch murder and mayhem rendered in vintage Hollywood style. No booming beat of psycho rap or a dead friend
’s face in sight. The images of a teen-aged Kelly intruded. Detective Hernandez had scanned and emailed them to Jessica after leaving her house on Thursday. In all, there were nearly a dozen shockingly licentious photos of her gorgeous young friend.

Adding to their shock value was the fact that several were
indeed taken of Kelly as a young teenager. In some, she sported the same maniacal glint in her eye that Barbara Stanwyck flashed at Fred McMurray in Double Indemnity. In those shots, she was Kelly the teenage femme fatale. Some of the photos taken later, when Kelly was 18 or 19, revealed something else. In them Kelly appeared weary and lost, less defiantly sure of herself. The light shone less brightly in her pale, languid eyes. She stared blankly at the camera lens, as though some part of the life inside her had already fled beyond its grasp.

Was Kelly, by then, deeply addicted to a drug that was sucking the life out of her? How could Jessica have missed the loss of that light in her friend? Could that loss have gone unseen by all t
hose who loved her, even Tommy?

Jessica flashed
again on that last New Year’s Eve with Kelly. She was struck by how hard Kelly had shoved Jessica and her other friends away in a drunken rage. Perhaps, by that point, no one could get close enough to see what was happening to Kelly Fontana.

Between films, Paul and Jessica talked again about
a lot of things. That included another round of discussion about how to manage their business relationship and a personal one. Should she be concerned about the fleeting glances from colleagues as she and Paul left the building together on Tuesday evening?

“I’m sure there’s a lot of curiosity about who you are. The rumor mill will churn away when a junior colleague and a senior colleague are seen dashing off together somewhere. We could try to be more discrete, I suppose
. My intentions are aboveboard, and my reputation is squeaky clean. It’s squeaky clean because I’ve worked hard keeping it that way. Integrity matters to me, and that’s not going to change.”

“I know that, Paul. That’s why we’re having this conversation. I don’t want to mislead you about my intentions, since they are virtually incomprehensible to me at times. I feel overwhelmed by your kindness and generosity toward me. I’m so needy righ
t now. I don’t want to respond inappropriately to the attention you show me. I’m afraid
I’ll
cross a boundary that I shouldn’t cross because I’ve been knocked on my behind by my ex-husband.”

She gazed into his blue eyes, which fixed her with an amiable twinkle. He was such a good sport, so balanced and judicious in his interactions with her and others. Maybe it was that stolid even-handedness,
and his directness that appealed to her. Or maybe it was just those piercing blue eyes and the little crinkles in the corners around them. It could be the handsome set of his jaw, the sensuous lips and the engaging smile.

“Well, I won’t deny that I’m drawn to you, Je
ssica. I’ve told you that already. I’ve heard every word you’ve had to say about your struggle to make a new life for yourself. I hope I can be part of that new life in some way. Let’s leave it at mentor and friend for now. I’m no fool, though,
and
I’m a lawyer. I understand the sensitive nature of the power difference between us. If I do or say anything that makes
you
feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me. I’ll do the same if you do something I find troubling. I’ll try to keep my wits about me, even when you throw your arms around my neck. Deal?”

“Deal,”
Jessica said as a rush of emotions engulfed her just thinking about those hugs. “Bergamot and amber,” she thought, hoping she could hold up her end of their bargain.

“Speaking of deals, guess who called me and wants to make one, involving you, by the way?”

“Let me guess, a gentleman by the name of Mr. P. Am I right?” Jessica asked, cringing as she uttered the man’s name.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

“I should have updated you about my latest encounter with psychopaths at dinner the other night. After that wonderful surprise about the exhibit honoring Dad, I didn’t want to ruin things by bringing it up. I figured I’d find a better time to fill you in on my latest foray into sleuthing. I guess now’s the time.”

Jessica spent the next twenty minutes bringing Paul up to date on the cold case involving her friend Kelly, whose boyfriend had recently turned up with a bullet in his head. She included the fact that her “pro bono” client, Chester Davis, had met his maker. Perhaps at the han
ds of a former cellmate, only one hypodermic needle away from the same fate. She detailed her admittedly impetuous visit to the man himself, their tumultuous conversation in his office, and the string of incidents involving the destruction or near-destruction of numerous autos before and since that visit.

“Wow, things have taken a few twists and turns, haven’t they? I guess it’s good that Mr. P made that call. I presume that means he still sees you as someone he can woo with the promise of billabl
e hours. While, of course, still trying to scare the living daylights out of you. I’m not sure what to make of the work he wants us to handle. It’s not really my bailiwick. They want the firm to take a look at copyright issues related to a video archive the studio has in its possession. Some still shots and music videos they’ve produced. Also older, more valuable films purchased with film preservation in mind. In addition to sorting out ownership, he also has a concern about putting the collection into a charitable trust with provisions for maintaining the archive long-term. That’s as far as we got during our initial conversation. I could steer the man toward others in the firm. Except for his expressed intention to include ‘that stunning young woman newly in your employ, Jessica Huntington’.”

“I’ll defer to you on this, Paul. The man is loathsome, and I dread the thought of working with him. I suppose
it’s probably smart not to disabuse the man of his belief that I can be bought off. Is there a way to say yes and no at the same time?”

“
What I can do is stall. It doesn’t sound like there’s any urgency about Mr. P’s plans for the archive. I’ll have Gloria put him on my schedule two or three weeks out. That’ll allow more time for law enforcement to carry out their investigations. You’ve got a horde of police detectives in at least three counties hard at work. If he’s behind even a small part of the trouble spinning around you, especially the deaths of Chester Davis or Bobby Simmons, your trouble with Mr. P may soon be over.”

“Oh my God, Paul, I hope that’s true. I
’d like to get justice for Kelly and Chester but I’ll settle for getting enough on them to bring an end to the murder and mayhem.”

He was right. There
were
a lot of people working on a lot of angles. According to Frank, even Art Greenwald and the cold case team were still at it. They were chasing down a couple new leads of their own as well as following up on the information Jessica and her friends had dug up. If they could connect the dots, there might be a way to stop Mr. P
and
get belated justice for Kelly. The missing piece was still the matter of a motive for killing Kelly. Perhaps she had pissed him off, as Jessica had done. It was not hard to imagine the tantrum-prone Mr. P acting on his rage from behind the wheel of an expensive luxury sedan transformed into a lethal weapon. “What did you do, Kelly?” Jessica wondered as she went back into hostess mode for her movie night with Paul.