Death by Sarcasm

Nineteen

Mary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.

“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.

“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.

“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”

“Very eloquent, Braggs. Almost as good as the racial slurs you dropped on Jimmy Millis.”

“Old news, Mary. Old news. And speaking of old,” he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent’s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”

“I’ve been thinking of nothing but. Obsessing would actually be the better term for it.”

“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”

“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.

“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They’re actually a fun bunch.”

“Laugh a minute, I’m sure, Whitney.”

Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”

“That would presuppose I have a style, Mr. Braggs.”

“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Absolutely not, dear lady,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? Complete balderdash, my lady!”

“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”

“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your buttocks, the firm ripeness of your bountiful breasts-”

“I am armed, Mr. Braggs.”

Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.

Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.

Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.

She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.

Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.

With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.

The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews headed by a celebrity she’d never heard of. Clubs she’d never heard of. Movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.

The very first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.

She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.

The twenty-six living would be relatively simple. She would have to track them down, interview them if possible, and cross them off the list until theoretically, she got the pool down to a chosen few and then she would have to take it from there.

It was the five accounted for that would be the bigger challenge. They had completely fallen off the grid, as the law enforcement community liked to call it. Or, just as likely, had taken themselves off the grid. Running from the law. Running from loan sharks. Hiding from ex-wives and alimony payments. She already pictured a couple of the guys bagging groceries in Florida under some assumed names.

More people abandoned their identities than most people realized. The process really wasn’t that difficult. The fact that most people thought it was very difficult was probably why more didn’t do it.

There was a definite appeal to tossing out your current station in life, and staring an entirely new one.

She couldn’t blame them if that’s what they’d done.

At some point, hadn’t everyone fantasized about disappearing and starting over somewhere new? Just wiping the slate clean? The ultimate do-over?

Mary couldn’t speak for everyone.

But she knew she’d considered it.

Mary drove back to her place and was at her door when she heard him.

“Hey, hold up!”

She turned and saw the new good-looking neighbor trot down the hall toward her. What was his name again, she thought. Chris. Chris McAllister.

“Sorry,” he said when he finally reached her. “But I wanted to ask you a question.” He hesitated. “Actually, I’d like to get your opinion.”

“Yes, I think global warming is actually happening. Soon we’ll be underwater. Might be an improvement for L.A.”

He laughed, displaying that easy confidence she had noticed and liked, before.

“You know, I happen to agree, but I actually wanted your opinion on something else.”

“Hey, you want ‘em, opinions I got.”

“It’s actually my apartment. I can’t decide where to hang two paintings. I needed a different perspective.”

“Ah, so when you bring your lady friends here they’ll feel at home? Sort of some inside information?”

“Exactly. I want you to spy on your gender for me. Come back and tell me everything.”

Mary chuckled and then her mind flashed back to the shooting at the gallery where the mermaid/dolphin had been destroyed.

“You know,” she said. “Art and I don’t have a great history together.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“All right, I’ll tell my manservant Jacques to keep the lobster warm.”

He laughed, and for a brief moment Mary realized it was a laugh she could get used to.

Christ McAllister opened the door and Mary followed him in, checking out his ass as she went. Nice. It was firm and taut. She wanted to bounce a quarter off the damn thing, or maybe something else. Something more personal.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said.

Mary looked around. Mess? Her place hadn’t been this neat and clean since she’d moved in.

“Yeah, what a dump,” she said. “Sheesh. If you think this is bad, come over and make a mess of my place. It’ll be a huge improvement.”

It was a nice place. He’d bought completely contemporary furnishings. Sleek tables. Fifties style lamps. But not over the top. Not self-conscious. She had to admit, it was just good taste. Hip good taste.

“Before I present the dilemma,” he said. “Can I offer the judge a beverage? Wine? Martini? Beer?”

“Do you have any grain alcohol?” she said. “200 proof?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Just polished that off last night.”

“In that case, I’m good for now.” Her head still ached from the Jack Daniels. She was looking forward to going to bed. Maybe she should take him with her.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “As you can see, my overall style is eclectic, but I’ve got two pieces of art here.”

He led her to the living room where two large canvases sat. One was definitely in the impressionistic camp. Heavy brushstrokes.

The other was like a Giclee print. It was an electric guitar.

“Hmm,” Mary said.

“What?”

“Well, I like both,” she said.

“Oh come on,” Chris answered. “My impression of you was that you don’t pull any punches. What do I look like? A pansy? I can handle the truth.” He raised his eyebrows and did a reasonably good impression of Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. “You need me on that wall…”

“Does anyone actually use the word pansy anymore?” Mary said.

“Only pansies.”

They both laughed.

“Okay, I’ll be honest,” Mary said. “Which is something I haven’t been in a long time. In fact, the last time I was honest I actually strained an abdominal muscle.”

“Okay.”

“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”

She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.

“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”

“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What did you figure me for?”

“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”

“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”

“Wow, what a coincidence. I love to have other people cook for me.”

Chris checked his watch. “Speaking of food, I was just going to whip up some pasta. Wanna stay?”

He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Mary checked out his ass again.

“I suppose I could cancel my dinner with the Governor.”