Authors: James L. Conway
“She sure is,” Syd said, hating her.
Ryan reached Anne and gave her a polite hug. Same cologne, he
thought. When she left him, Ryan used to smell her pillow at night to get
a whiff of that cologne. It made him ache. “This is a surprise,” he
said.
“I was in the station on business, so I thought I’d stop by and say
hello,” she said, her eyes taking an inventory of his face. “God, you
look great. You’ve really been taking care of yourself, Ryan.”
His eyes went from her brown eyes to her patrician nose and lingered on
the small cleft in her chin. “You, too,” he said. “How’s Rick?”
Ryan asked, hoping Anne’s husband had choked to death on a chicken bone or
gotten stomach cancer and died a horrible death.
“He’s great. And you, are you with someone now?”
“No,” Ryan said, feeling guilty about Syd, but he could hardly admit to
sleeping with his partner.
“I’d love to catch up, Ryan, you got a few minutes for a cup of coffee?”
“Not now, no. I’m in the middle of something. But I’d like
that too; maybe in a day or so. Can I call you?”
“Absolutely,” Anne said, handing him her card. “And if you don’t
call me, I’ll call you.” Anne leaned forward, kissed Ryan on the
cheek. “Till then…”
Ryan watched her walk out the door. “Nice ass,” Syd said, joining
Ryan.
“Not really,” Ryan said. “It’s riddled with cellulite.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, she’s got a great ass, and the rest of her ain’t too bad either,
but she’s got one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s not you.”
Syd smiled. “You’re sweet. I’d kiss you if it wouldn’t get us
fired.”
Ryan looked into Syd’s adorable freckled face. “It would almost be
worth it. Now come on, we’ve got a murder to solve.”
Adam Devlin was going to die today.
He didn’t know it of course; he was firmly entrenched in his typical Tuesday
routine. The day had started with the alarm waking him at five forty-five.
He rolled over on his 1020 thread count, 100% spun Egyptian Cotton Sateen
Jacurard sheets and looked into the sleeping face of his wife, Emily.
Emily was cheerleader pretty, blonde, athletic, perky. They’d been college
sweethearts at USC and gotten married the same June they graduated. And
after seven years of marriage, they were still happy. Well, L.A.
happy. She was having an affair with the eighteen-year-old boy living
next door and Adam cheated regularly with an array of willing participants.
They lived in a five-million-dollar house in Brentwood, bought with the
money Adam made as a wildly successful sports agent. Adam’s best friend
in college was the USC quarterback, who went on to win the Heisman trophy, and
then signed an eighty-million-dollar contract with the Washington
Redskins. The quarterback signed on as Adam’s first client and after a
blizzard of commercials and endorsements, other clients soon followed.
Adam rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of Nike workout shorts, Under
Armor tee shirt, Reebok socks and Adidas running shoes, all gifts from his many
sponsors, and walked down the hall to his home gym. He jumped on his
Precor treadmill, did twenty minutes at 4.5 miles an hour at 5% elevation, and
then did twenty more minutes on his Parabody weight machine, also gifts from
sponsors. He checked his email on his Samsung Galaxy then watched a 32
inch Sony LCD flat screen as he worked out, switching between ESPN and CNBC to
catch up on two of his favorite things, sports and money.
Next he shaved with a Gillette Fusion razor, brushed his teeth with Crest
toothpaste, showered with Irish Spring soap, shampooed with Pantene and dressed
in his usual blue Levi 501’s, a pale yellow Tommy Hilfiger dress shirt, then
slipped, barefoot, into a pair of Kenneth Cole loafers. Emily was
up by then and had poured Adam a bowl of Grape Nuts, sliced him a Chiquita
banana and made him a Starbucks decaf latte with nonfat Alta Dena milk and half
a pack of Splenda. And yes, they were all sponsor gifts.
Adam and Emily chatted about their upcoming day. Emily had her
tennis league at Riviera and a lunch at Geoffrey’s with Ellen and JoAnne.
Adam had a meeting with an NBA official in the morning, lunch with a golf
pro client at Mr. Chow’s, then a meeting at the Bel Air Regent Hotel with some
execs from BMW who wanted his clients in their cars.
So, with exactly eleven hours left to inhale oxygen, Adam steered his Salsa
Red XKR 4.2 Supercharged Jag convertible into the parking lot of his Santa
Monica office building. As he spun the wheel to pull into his assigned
parking spot, a white Prius suddenly backed out of a spot in front of him and
they collided.
“God damn it,” Adam said leaping out of his car to inspect the
damage. It was minor, a small dent on his bumper, a bigger ding on the Prius,
but he was still pissed. As the door to the Prius opened, he prepared a
verbal assault that died in his throat when he saw the driver.
She was blonde, tall and beautiful. She wore a white halter-top, red
shorts and sandals. She was more skin than cloth and Adam wasn’t
complaining. This girl was hot.
“I’m so sorry,” the blonde said. “I’m such an idiot. Oh, and look
at your beautiful car, it’s ruined.”
“Not at all, it’s just a scratch,” Adam said. “Your car took most
to the damage.”
“I hope we don’t have to call the police or involve the insurance
companies,” she said, her green eyes locked on his face. “My rates are
already sky high and I couldn’t afford another hike.”
Adam could feel this woman’s sexuality. It practically radiated off
of her. He had to have her, so he pulled out one of his favorite
lines. “Are you an actress, or something,” Adam blurted out. “I
mean, you are just
so
beautiful.”
The blonde blushed, embarrassed. “Me? No, no; I’m, well, to be
honest, I’m out of work at the moment. I was hoping to find a job,
something in fashion or advertising, but I just moved to town, so I don’t know
anybody, and I’m having a hard time getting started.”
“I have a lot of contacts in advertising,” Adam said. “Maybe I
could help you. My name is Adam, by the way…” Adam extended his hand.
The blonde took it, gave him a firm handshake. “Susie,” Alice
said. “My name is Susie.”
Adam loved the feel of her skin, he let the handshake linger, and then
reluctantly let go. “Tell you what, Susie, I’ve got a meeting at the Bel
Air Regent Hotel this afternoon but I’ll be done about five-thirty. If
you’ll meet me in the bar, we can talk and I bet I can help you get that job.”
“That’s fantastic! Adam, thank you so much,” then her eyes dropped
to the damaged fenders. “But what about your car?”
“Don’t worry about it. In fact,” Adam said, pulling out a thick
roll of hundreds and peeling off five. “Use this to get your bumper
fixed. If I hadn’t been going so fast, you never would have hit
me.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“You can and will,” Adam said, closing her hand around the handful of
bills. “And that’s just the beginning. You’ve got a friend in L.A.
now, me. So will I see you at the Bel Air Regent?”
Alice scrunched up her face pretending to think about it, and then
nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Adam.” She stuffed the money in
purse. “Thank you so much.”
Adam had a smile on his face as he got back into his car. A smile
and a hard-on.
The Crown Vic smelled like pepperoni pizza. Ryan and Syd were
sharing the car with a team from the vice squad that had been staking out a strip
club waiting for a certain pimp to show up, and each morning Ryan and Syd knew
what the team ate for dinner. They had eclectic taste, Chinese, Mexican,
and last night, Italian.
Ryan was behind the wheel, talking on his cell phone. “Yes, that’ll be
fine sir, and again, my sympathies.” Ryan disconnected. “Colin
Wood’s father will meet us at the morgue at four o’clock to ID the body.”
Syd had the VICAP printout on her lap. “Good,” she said as
Ryan drove down Robertson Boulevard en route to the Ivy restaurant. “Did
you know there is actually a medical term for having your cock cut off,
penectomy.”
“No way.”
“Way. That’s when doctors do it, if the patient has cancer or
something. But when it’s involved in a crime, it’s just called
mutilation. By the way, the killer of that drug dealer I mentioned in the
office was caught and is currently in prison. And so is this guy in
Germany who cut off some guy’s penis, watched him bleed to death, and then ate
him.”
“Ate the guy’s penis?”
“Yeah, and other stuff. What a freak.”
“How about cases where the doer was a woman?”
“Been a while,” Syd said flipping through the pages. “You might’ve
heard of Lorena Bobbitt; in 1993 she cut off her husband’s penis while he was
asleep then threw it out the car window.”
“Why?”
“She was pissed he wouldn’t give her an orgasm.”
“In that case, I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Ryan said.
Syd smiled. With Ryan, she had multiple orgasms. “Nothing at
all. Anyway, doctors were able to reattach Bobbitt’s penis and he went on
to become a porn star. And Mrs. Penis Remover was found not guilty by
reason of temporary insanity. So a happy ending for everyone involved.
Well, everyone but us.” She flipped through the report. “There are
no cases of a woman killing a man and cutting off his you know what. Just
a few angry women hacking away at lovers and boyfriends.”
“And nothing in the last few weeks or months?”
“No.”
“Shit.” Ryan’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Hello.”
“Hey Ryan, its Johnny.”
Ryan tried to place the name, couldn’t. “Johnny?”
“Johnny Grayson, you dope. Your one and only brother.”
My one and only
step
brother, Ryan thought, and for only eighteen
months. Johnny was the son of Maggie, wife number two. A couple of
years older than Ryan he had picked on Ryan relentlessly. Now he
was a manager at Home Depot but spent every spare moment at the racetrack.
Ryan thought the guy was a total loser and hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of
years.
“Hey, Johnny, what’s up?”
“You are, bro. You are forty-seven million smackers worth of up.”
Fuck, Ryan thought. “Actually it’s only thirty-four after taxes.”
“Still enough to start that stable of horses we always talked about.”
“We never talked about a stable of horses, Johnny.”
“Okay, you may not have, but it’s something I’ve always dreamt of.
And I figured it would be the perfect way for you to share your wealth with the
family.”
Ryan wasn’t sure about a lot of things, including whether he was even
going to take the money; but one thing he was sure of, there was no way Johnny Grayson
was going to see a penny of it. “Look, Johnny, I can’t talk about this
right now. I’m on a case. But I’ll call you back, I promise,” Ryan
hung up, and then muttered, “When hell freezes over.”
“And so it begins,” Syd said.
“Oh, it’s begun all right,” Ryan said. “Tony Ramirez called me
earlier about a meatball franchise, in the men’s room Chen begged me for
just
eighty-three thousand dollars so he could save his mother’s house from
foreclosure, in the locker room Katz showed me a picture of the fishing boat
he’s always dreamed of and it only cost one hundred and eighteen thousand
dollars.” Ryan pulled to a stop in front of the Ivy. “God damn lottery
ticket.”
“Speaking of which,” Syd said, climbing out of the car. “When do
you want to stop by the Lotto office and pick up your check? You don’t
have much time.”
“I’m not sure,” Ryan said, his eyes searching the restaurant’s
patio. He picked out a pretty blonde ushering a couple to their
table. “That looks like her.”
Syd spotted her. Actress pretty, Syd thought, with a bit of attitude.
She fit the roommate’s description. “Let’s go find out,” she said.
They caught up to Abigail Granger at the hostess stand, introduced
themselves and Abigail led them to a small office behind the bar. Her
eyes were bloodshot; it looked like she’d been crying. She may have hated
Colin Wood, Ryan thought. But there was a lot of love there, too.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ryan said.
“Yeah, yeah; fuck him,” she said, fighting back tears. “He was a
selfish SOB, you know, and was always cheating on me. And I’d catch him
and we’d fight, and I’d leave… then a few days later he would call, or stop by
with flowers, or send some guy with a mandolin who’d sing kitschy Barry Manilow
love songs and I’d melt and go back to Colin and he’d promise to never cheat on
me again.”
“But he would,” Syd said sympathetically.
Abby nodded. “I’m such a sap. And now,” she said, the tears
flowing, “and now he’ll never call again.”
Ryan had seen a lot of people grieve. Some of the most
anguished and heartfelt had actually turned out to be the killer, so Ryan never
let himself be swayed by public displays of emotion.
Ryan had taught Syd this, but needn’t have bothered. Syd’s own life
lessons had taught her to never trust anyone. And as she and Ryan watched
Abigail Granger weep, Syd looked at her blonde hair, remembered Colin Wood’s
roommate’s story about Abigail hitting Colin with a frying pan and Abigail’s notorious
temper. When Abigail regained her composure, Syd asked, “Do you have any
idea who may have wanted to kill Colin?”
Abigail looked confused. “I thought you said it was a robbery?”
“There were certain elements at the crime scene to suggest it might have
actually been a premeditated murder,” Ryan said.
“Just for the record,” Syd said as casually as possible while she flipped
open her notepad, “where were you between the hours of midnight and two a.m.?”
“In bed, asleep.”
“Can anyone confirm that?” Syd asked.
Anger flashed in Abigail’s blue eyes. “Are you saying I’m a
suspect?”
“You can’t be a suspect if you have an alibi,” Ryan said.
Abigail stuck out her hands. “Then lock me up officer because I was
alone in my apartment and unless you can get my cat to talk, I’ve got no way to
prove it.”
“We’re not here to arrest anyone,” Syd said. “We’re just trying to
get some information.”
“Oh, I get it,” Abigail said. “You heard about some of the fights
Colin and I had. Well just because I hit him with a frying pan, backed
over his foot in my car and stabbed him in the hand with a fork doesn’t mean I
killed him.” Abigail let the words hang in the air, then seemed to hear
what she said and started laughing. “Okay, maybe it does sound like I
killed him.”
Syd laughed too. “Actually, we’d heard only about the frying pan.”
“Okay, look,” Abigail said. “I’ve got a temper, and I can be a
bitch, I admit it. But I didn’t kill Colin, I swear.”
Syd believed her. And it would be easy enough to show Abigail’s
picture to the bartender to confirm it. She glanced at Ryan who seemed to
agree.
“You have any idea who might have wanted him dead?” Ryan asked.
“If it helps,” Syd said, “he was spotted at the crime scene with a
beautiful blonde.”
Abigail’s hand involuntarily touched her hair. “Ah, now I get
it. ‘Beautiful blonde,’ guess I should be complimented.”
“Do you know of any women who hated Colin,” Ryan pressed. “And
forget hair color; people wear wigs.”
Abigail concentrated then revelation lit up her face. “Something
happened a year or so before I met Colin, which would make it like three years
ago – he was accused of date rape. He wasn’t arrested or anything,
but I know there was an investigation, and she threatened to sue him, but
Colin’s dad ending up paying her off and the whole thing went away.”
“Do you think Colin was capable of date rape?” Syd asked.
“Date rape all depends on your definition of no, doesn’t it? There
are a few times in my life when I’d say no, but the guy didn’t listen, kept
kissing, rubbing, begging and I’d eventually give in; well, in my head that’s
still date rape.” She looked at Syd. “That ever happen to you?”
Syd thought of her stepfather. “More than a few times.”
“So,” Abigail said. “Sure, I can see Colin crossing someone
else’s
line. It’s all perception, after all, isn’t it?”
“Do you know this woman’s name?” Ryan asked.
“No, sorry, I only know the story because Colin got drunk one night and
told me. Not one of his proudest moments. But I’m sure his dad
knows the name, he wrote her a check, right?”
“We’ll ask him,” Ryan said.
“Look,” Abigail said, glancing into the restaurant. “Is there
anything else, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
“You’re an actress, right?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.”
“And I bet you keep some headshots here, just in case you meet a producer
or director.”
“And you’d like one to show that bartender or whoever to see if I was the
one that killed Colin. Sure, no problem, I’ll be right back.”
Abigail hurried off.
“The date rape sounds promising,” Syd said.
“Speaking of which, did you mean what you told her. About being
date raped?”
“Of course not,” Syd said. “I was just trying to earn her
confidence.”
“Good,” he said, taking her hand. “I hate thinking anything
terrible ever happened to you.”
Anything terrible, indeed, Syd thought.
Syd grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, daughter of Todd Curtis, an eighth
grade science teacher and Amanda Curtis, a registered nurse. The first
nine years of young Syd’s life were blissfully normal until her father fell in
love with the school principal, another man, and they ran off together.
Feelings of abandonment rocked young Syd. Not to mention confusion;
her daddy left home for another man?
Her mother didn’t fare any better. Humiliated, she started self medicating
from the hospital’s pharmacy. And drinking. And ignoring her
daughter.
Then a white knight showed up, Doctor Jay Stevens, an ER doctor Syd’s
mother met at work. He had a drug problem, too. Speed. And he
drank more than a bit. So they had a lot in common. When Syd was
twelve, they got married.
Syd never liked Doctor Jay. He had this way of looking at her that
made her skin crawl. She learned the perfect word for him when she was
older. Smarmy.
Doctor Jay was, of course, lusting after the sweet, redheaded
darling. And on her fourteenth birthday, when Syd was asleep in her bed,
and her mother was passed out on the couch, a drunk Doctor Jay stumbled into
the birthday girl’s room, took off his clothes and climbed into bed next to
her. She awoke with a start; Doctor Jay clasped his hand over her mouth,
told her to do what he said or he’d kill her mother.
And so it went for three years. A thoroughly confused and
conflicted Syd, afraid for her mother’s life, afraid to lose another father
figure, submitted her body to repeated abuse. Once she tried to tell her
mother, but as soon as Mom realized where the conversation was going, she shut
her daughter up. She didn’t want to hear what she suspected. She didn’t
want to lose another husband, no matter how high a price her daughter had to
pay.
Always a loner with few friends, the shame and guilt of her stepfather’s
abuse isolated Syd even more. She felt trapped and truly alone.
Then, late one cold February night, Syd heard Doctor Jay pull into the
garage. On nights when Doctor Jay worked this late, he usually came
upstairs to Syd’s bedroom and stinking of bourbon, would slip into her
bed. But tonight, she didn’t hear the dreaded sound of the car being shut
off, the garage door closing, the kitchen door opening and his feet on the
staircase. Tonight she just heard the sound of the car, idling in the
garage.
She realized he’d probably fallen asleep after pulling into the
garage. It had happened before. Too bad he didn’t close the garage
door, she thought. Then the car’s exhaust would’ve filled the garage and
he’d die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Epiphany. Just because he didn’t close the door didn’t mean someone
else couldn’t. She tiptoed into the hallway and peaked in her mother’s
room – she was out, snoring. Syd snuck down the stairs and silently
opened the door to the garage. Yep, there he was, asleep behind the wheel
of his BMW.