Death by Sarcasm

Twenty-one

Mary did not begin investigating the names the old guys had given her.

She started with the old guys themselves.

One by one, she used her notes to check them off. Prescott. Castro. Reihm. She had no way of determining guilt or innocence, she simply sought confirmation that they were the people they said they were.

Two hours later, she had managed to confirm the basic details of all the men in the room, as well as Harvey Mitchell, who had not been in attendance.

Satisfied that Brent’s gang was at least superficially verified, she then turned to the files.

And started with the least likely first.

It took two phone calls and one visit to a public records website to confirm that Martin Gulinski, a.k.a. Martin Gulls, had in fact died, leaving at least one son in Portland. Mary took the Gulinski folder and filed it with the others that she had eliminated as possibilities.

She did as much as she could with Marie Stevens. The manager of Forest Hills told her that there was a Marie Stevens “resting” there, but inquired as to which one she was interested in. When Mary described what she needed to know, he cut her off and said that kind of information wasn’t allowed over the phone.

Mary accepted the fact that she would have to drive out there and speak to the guy in person. She tried to find out more about Marie Stevens, including records of arrests in California and public information regarding mental institutions, but to no avail. However, she felt reasonably confident that one of the Marie Stevenses at Forest Hills would be the one she was looking for.

So she set that folder aside, instead of filing it.

Matt Bolt. Fatty Matty. One unofficial visit to a Union website confirmed that a Matt Bolt was employed in the Los Angeles area. The site listed an address and a phone number for Mr. Bolt. She looked, but nowhere was there a mention of “Fatty.”

She called the number.

“Hello?” a woman said.

“Hi, I’m looking for a Fatty.”

Pause. “I think you have the wrong number,” the woman said.

“Matt Bolt. Is he there?” Mary said.

“Oh, yes. Who is calling?”

“I’m a secretary with the union,” Mary said. “I just need to confirm his withholding allowances.”

“Okay, hold on.”

Mary heard the phone being put down, the sound of a television’s volume being lowered and then a gruff voice came on the phone.

“‘lo?”

“Mr. Bolt?”

“Yeah?”

“Fatty Matty?”

A sigh. “Who is this?”

“My name is Mary Cooper. I’m a relative of Brent Cooper.”

“Ah. I heard he’s dead.”

“Last time I checked, yes, he was.”

Bolt gave a little grunt, not of apology, just recognition.

“Had you kept in touch with him at all, Mr. Bolt?” Mary asked.

“Why? What is this?” he asked.

“In addition to being Brent’s niece, I’m a private investigator and have been asked by some of his associates to aid the police investigation. Now, tell me…”

“What am I, a suspect?”

Mary didn’t even bother answering that one.

“You watch too many movies, lady.” Bolt laughed.

“Thanks for your input, Mr. Fatty,” she said. “Now, do you know anything at all about my uncle? Anything that could help me in the course of the investigation?”

“Look, honey, I’ve been in New Zealand for the past two months shooting a film called TO THE LAST BONE. I just got back yesterday. You can check with my boss, or my union or whatever. I wasn’t even in town when he was killed.”

“So you do porno?”

“What?”

“TO THE LAST BONE. It’s a porno flick?” Mary said.

“No! It’s not porno. It’s an action film. Knife-fighting and crap like that.”

“So tell me how you made the change from comedy to being an electrician,” she said.

“Guess I wasn’t funny enough. Look, what do you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Brent?”

“Lots of people.”

“Do any of these people have names?”

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you feelings but he could be an ass.”

“What about that group you used to run around with? Whitney Braggs, Noah Baxter, Harvey Mitchell.”

“Ah, those guys. Why don’t you ask them?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

He didn’t answer and Mary heard the sound of a television being turned on in the background.

“What do you know about David Kenum?” Mary said.

“What?”

“David Kenum.”

“Have you talked to him?” he said.

“Just through the mail, I wrote him and asked him to marry me,” she said. “I’m one of those prison groupies.”

“Yeah, right. You’re a Cooper. I can tell.”

“Stop with the compliments. So? Kenum?”

“No, I don’t know anything about the f*ckstick,” Bolt said. “The guy’s bad news. Killed a girl. That’s all I know.”

“Did you hear he was out of prison?”

A sharp intake of breath and then, “He is?”

“Yep. Paid his dues. Thoroughly reformed. Ready to be an upstanding citizen.”

“Look,” Bolt said. “I gotta go. You need anything else from me?”

“Nope, got everything I need.”

“Good. Bye.”

“Oh, wait!” Mary said. “Is the red positive or the black? I always get those mixed up.”

All she heard was a dial tone.