Monsters Under the Bed (5 page)

As I drove away from the glum manor, I felt oddly conflicted. Typically, the outcome of a case had no personal meaning for me. I didn’t get attached to my clients, nor did I let the moral or ethical considerations of cases get under my skin, or I would never get any sleep. But right now I found myself wanting to find nothing. Mo had suffered so much during his lifetime. He had gained notoriety, wealth, and creative excess, but at the expense of his entire family.

Driving back to the city, I prayed Mo wasn’t the victim of foul play.

Yet, an instinct in the back of my mind warned me that might be wishful thinking.

“L
OOK
at what the cat dragged in.”

Benny’s deep belly chuckle reminded me of the image of cops with their donuts—even though he disliked donuts. He was soft and puffed around the middle, but he had a good head on his shoulders. He brushed his brown hair out of his eyes as he watched me saunter closer and sit down on the visitor’s chair.

“Gimme a break,” I mock growled, and he laughed some more. Even back on the force, I had hated early morning shifts, while Benny was a morning person. By noon, when most people had finally gotten the sleep out of their eyes, he had gotten all of his workday done.

“What brings you over to the dark side, Sammy? Or did you forget you don’t work here anymore?” He nudged my arm playfully and winked. “Or did you miss me?”

“Yeah, like a bad rash.” I shoved his arm but not that hard. It was fun, and a part of me missed my old friends and colleagues. But there had been name-calling and veiled threats thrown into the mix of those memories too. “Listen, man. I need a favor.”

“Aha.” He nodded, unsurprised. “Get to it, pretty boy. I’ve got work to do.”

I let him call me that because he meant nothing by it. But I did stare at his desk. Others had papers and files in huge stacks, but his was all but cleared. Benny was a speed-reader, and his memory was the envy of all. Except me, that is, as I had my own perfect recall—
and
I was a speed-reader too. A quirk we shared. “I need to know where you’re at with the Chance suicide.”

Benny’s brown eyes narrowed. “Mozart Chance, the kid genius?” He paused, giving me an assessing look. “Do I want to know?” I shook my head. “Okay. I can give you the stuff we’re gonna give to the press anyway.”

That definitely wasn’t what I had hoped to hear. “What about the case file, or the autopsy report?”

Benny shook his head. “No way, man.”

“I don’t want to take them, Benny. I just wanna peek. Come on, five minutes with, and, uh….” I had to come up with a suitable “bribe,” and fast too. “And I’ll make sure Ford makes those BBQ ribs with the chocolate-chili sauce you love.”

Benny was wavering. I saw the hunger in his eyes. His wife wasn’t particularly gifted in the kitchen, so I knew he’d cave. “Fine,” he harrumphed. “Five minutes. Follow me.”

Three minutes later, I had several files open in front of me in one of the less frequently used storage rooms by the archives, and I flipped through them as fast as I could while not wanting to miss important details. Quickly I ascertained the main aspects of the Chance case, and unluckily for me, it was beginning to look like—
you guessed it
—murder.

Time of death: March 30, 10:38 p.m. Declared dead at the scene by the EMTs after nine minutes of CPR. Well, at least he had passed the ides of March, I thought sardonically.

Scene of the accident: Lincoln Boulevard, just past the Battery toward Bluff’s Trail, before the Kobbe Avenue intersection. Mo Chance’s luxury car had driven off the road near a soft curve, torn through the metal railing, and fallen down the hill into a tree.

The street name rang a few bells. It was the same stretch of road that had led to the deaths of his parents nine years previous. Either the guy had really shitty luck and bad karma, or this had been a nostalgia-induced suicide—or the perfect cover-up for a homicide. No skid marks, so either his brakes were tampered with or he hadn’t seen how close he was to the edge of the road—or he had committed vehicular suicide.

I moved forward through the files because conjecture never served a purpose, not at this stage anyway. Creativity and imagination had their functions in investigations, but they could not command over facts and logical conclusions. The head had to rule the heart.

Cause of death: Death caused by head trauma and pulmonary edema, which in turn had been caused by cadmium poisoning.

Well, that was pretty damn suspicious. The crash explained the head trauma, but not the cadmium poisoning. If you wanted to kill yourself, you’d use meds, like sleeping agents. But a weird poisonous substance where the death would be painful? Unlikely.

I read on and found out cadmium exposure was the worst if inhaled with dust or fumes. Was cadmium present in modern vehicles? After reading way too many product labels in my time, I knew batteries and TV sets had cadmium. I ransacked my memory for more tidbits about the chemical and recalled notations about cadmium paints, cadmium plating, and electric car batteries. Cadmium was also a by-product in zinc refining. I would have to do more research.

If cadmium had been used in the construction of Mo’s car, the fire ignited by the crash could have caused the chemical to turn into a toxic fume. If Mo had inhaled it, then it was conceivable his death had been unfortunate, but accidental. A lot depended on getting the answer to this vehicle’s structural question.

But then I read onward. One particular compound of significant quantities in Mo’s system had been red-flagged by the system: mescaline, a hallucinogen from the peyote cactus. It was a psychedelic alkaloid, altering brain chemistry, potentially causing permanent brain damage.

Now it was a question of Mo’s character, his personality as a child genius. Had he been a drug addict, stimulating his creative juices with juices of the illegal kind? I hadn’t known him, so I couldn’t answer that. Cecil lived with him, but he wasn’t always around and had, in fact, preferred to avoid the kid. But Parkinson might know.

I called the manor’s main line with my cell. After two rings, Parkinson answered with his polite, professionally detached tone. “How can I help you, Mr. Garrett?”

I decided not to beat around the bush. “Did Mo ever experiment with recreational drugs? Did he drink a lot?” I thought I presented a neutral line of inquiry.

“Absolutely not. Mo didn’t drink or do drugs. He didn’t even smoke tobacco, let alone marijuana. He feared these mind-altering substances would change his brain. And he often told me he liked his brain the weird way it was. He did say the strangest things sometimes….” Parkinson sounded indignant, and I believed him. “I don’t know if you are aware…,” he added, his voice going softer, quieter. “Cecil told the police when they questioned him that Mo
did
experiment with drugs. Mo was brilliant, after all, and boredom did set in him from time to time. I could smell things in his playroom and labs sometimes, like toying with a chemistry set, but never drugs. But Cecil did know Mo far better than I.” There was a brief silence, but then his voice grew stronger, more confident once more. “No, I still do not believe it. Narcotics leave traces, physical evidence on a person addicted, and I never saw any signs.”

Yet again, I believed him. I thanked him for his assistance, asked him to keep our conversation to himself, and ended the call. I would have to talk with Cecil again, to get some kind of confirmation.

I quickly continued to dabble with the iPhone and found all sites related to cadmium and cars. After an expeditious survey of about ten minutes, I came to the conclusion that Mo’s type of car didn’t have any cadmium in it. The method with which it had entered his system remained a mystery. And since Mo didn’t smoke, he couldn’t have gotten cadmium poisoning that way either. The county medical examiner had judged the case correctly, as the autopsy report ruled Mo Chance’s demise as a suspicious death.

So, it was murder after all.

The problem was that even though I knew the time of death and the crime’s method, it didn’t help me hone in on any particular suspects. Cadmium was a delayed poison, not working its magic right away, so Mo must have inhaled the substance before the crash. This theory was further confirmed by the symptoms Parkinson had described Mo having, and that had been around lunchtime, at noon. Perhaps Mo had smoked cadmium with the mescaline? I pushed the thought aside as too much conjecture at this stage.

It didn’t take a medical or scientific degree for a person to become familiar with toxic and poisonous chemicals. In this day and age, anyone could get their hands on the right information.

So I was left with more and new questions, even though some of my earlier ones had been answered. That was how some cases went.

“You still here?” Benny poked his head inside the room. “It’s been nearly half an hour. I have to take the files back.”

“Of course.” I put every paper back in its proper folder and handed the bundle to him. “Any chance I could see the body?” Benny’s glare was all the answer I needed. I suppose I had worn my welcome mat too thin already. Besides, I wasn’t a cop anymore. So I moved on. “Thanks, Benny. I won’t forget this.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “Just make sure that man of yours doesn’t forget my ribs, and we’re cool.”

M
Y
NEXT
stop was Luther Lovell, the chauffeur and bodyguard.

I had no choice in the matter. I had spoken on the phone with Giulia Capello’s personal assistant—a nanny with a PA? Only in California—and she had told me the lady was busy and would not become available until tomorrow. So, the only one left I could speak with today was Mr. Lovell.

It wasn’t difficult finding his private security company, Strike A Peace. The building complex took over the whole block. It turned out the building also housed an army recruitment office and several gyms for various combat sports, all accessible from the front lobby. This was a place of no nonsense. Stark interiors with glass tables and leather couches, cold colors, and militaristic art gave it a definite masculine appearance.

I announced myself to the perky, cute blonde receptionist, who packed some serious muscle. She told me to take the elevator to the second floor, where the entirety of Lovell’s security company was apparently located. Upon arriving at the second floor, I was surprised by the change in atmosphere.

Gone were cold color schemes, rudimentary furniture, and the austere surroundings. In their place was serene Japanese decor in warm, earthy tones. The vast open spaces were partitioned with shoji screens showing blossoms—white and cherry—and lit with bamboo lamps depicting flying cranes. The bamboo rugs connected, like bridges over water, the various nooks where tatami rush-grass mats were situated, along with elegant tea tables and floor pillows. Even the stylistic blinds covering the huge windows had Japanese air and water themes in them, and the large, complex ikebana flower arrangements gave lush color and cool tranquility to the otherwise industrial space.

It seemed Mr. Lovell was a lover of all things Oriental.

To confirm my hypothesis, a tiny Japanese girl wearing a body-hugging kimono, with her glistening black hair arranged in a hairdo rivaling the complexity of the ikebana, approached me. “May I help you, Mr.…?”

“Sam Garrett. I’m looking for Mr. Lovell. He should be expecting me.” I sure did hope Niedermayer had prepared the chauffeur for my arrival—or perhaps intrusion was a better word.

With a graceful bow, she gestured me to follow, and I did.

She led me to a new open space at the back, where I expected to find an office with Mr. Lovell in it. Instead, a group of men in deep concentration sat around a training mat where two men in Japanese attire and protective armor battled against each other with bamboo swords called
shinai
. This was kendo, I recognized, a modern Japanese martial art. Sharp shouts emerged from the two men every time one made a move on the other, but the clatter of wood remained quieter than their voices. The stylized helmets with metal grills protected their faces as effectively as the hard fabric flaps shielded their arms, throats, shoulders, and chests.

Their teacher, or master, who called out the instructions, was not Japanese, however.

Dressed in a black jacket and
hakama
, or wide-legged trousers, the man was taller than everyone in the room, including me. Muscular and ripped, he epitomized speed, strength, training, and skill, like a black panther. His chocolate-brown skin shone in the warm glow of the lights, but his face was that of a seasoned fighter, with a broken nose and several scars crisscrossing his otherwise stonily riveting countenance. He only had black hair on the top of his head while below it a ring of fire tattoo surrounded his skull, the yellow, orange, and red strikingly vivid. One could not call him attractive, but he was arresting in his beaten ugliness.

I waited on the sidelines until the two competing men stopped what they were doing and bowed to their teacher. Only then did I approach.

“Mr. Lovell?” The black man turned to me, his face expressionless but his black eyes piercingly intense. He quirked an eyebrow in question. “I’m Sam Garrett. You might have been told to expect me.”

He looked me over agonizingly slowly. For the first time since high school, I felt like fidgeting. Luckily, I didn’t. He nodded in understanding, turned to his students, and bowed to them. He called forth another man to take his place. Then he guided me away from the training area into one of the sitting spaces.

Fluidly, so
very
gracefully, he knelt on the floor pillow before the glass table, and I did the same, only less elegantly. There was a delicate and undoubtedly priceless antique tea set on the table. Steam rose from the earthenware pot, so the dishes were clearly still in use.

Lovell didn’t look at me when he poured me a cup. “This tea set is two thousand years old. It survives because it is still used. Everything in the world has its use. One merely has to find it. But—” He filled his own cup as well. “—the use remains elusive. Secrets are flighty, but they do wish to be caught. Yet one has to make an effort. What effort have you made, Mr. Garrett?”