Death by Sarcasm

Twenty-five

Mary spent the night in Catalina, but at least it wasn’t in the slammer. It took the rest of the next day for the police to get her statement and let her catch the last ferry off the island.

Mary finally made it back to her apartment. She immediately stripped off her nasty new clothes from the island, took a long, hot shower, and went to sleep. In her dreams, she was still stuck in the kelp bed and she started to sink into the water. There was a white glow in the water beneath her and as she sunk deeper, it seemed as if it was rising. She peered closer. And she saw the faces of her parents.

Mary shot up in bed, her breath coming in gasps. It had been years since she’d had a nightmare about her parents. Mary grabbed the phone and called Jake, but she went straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.

Mary got out of bed, showered again, dressed and went across the hall. She knocked on Chris McAllister’s door, but there was no answer.

She went back into her apartment, made some coffee, and thought about the state of things. There was one facet of the case that had stood out to her from the very beginning. And this morning, she was determined to tackle it head on. She made a quick egg white omelet, chased it with toast and more coffee, then locked the place.

It was time to see Harvey Mitchell.

Just for the hell of it, Mary took Wilshire from Santa Monica up into Beverly Hills. She sort of liked Wilshire, it had the nice kind of variety Mary liked about L.A.

Mitchell’s office was just off one of the studio lots in a little cabana type building. Outside there was a fountain with a sculpture of a girl doing a cartwheel. There were also people riding around in golf carts.

Mary had chosen the Lexus over the Honda for the foray into Beverly Hills and now she parked it in a visitor space and went to the front door.

She stepped inside and saw the desk before she saw the woman. The desk was cherry and neatly organized, with an old-fashioned French phone nestled in its cradle.

The woman behind it was in her early twenties, with a rock hard body and long straight black hair.

“May I help you,” the woman said, her voice slightly rough and textured. Either affected, or lots of booze and cigarettes. Mary ruled out the booze, this woman clearly worked out. She was wearing a black t-shirt with black dress slacks. Mary could see the biceps and triceps struggling for dominance. Her arms looked like the legs of a supermarket rotisserie chicken.

“I’m Mary Cooper, here to see Harvey Mitchell.”

Mary saw the woman start to speak but she spoke first. “Yes, I have an appointment. Three o’clock.”

Mary watched as she looked at the book. The woman’s name momentarily eluded her, but then it popped in.

“You’re Claudia Ridner, right? Mr. Mitchell’s assistant?”

“Yep, but everybody calls me Claw,” she said, and held up one of her hands which had some impressively long fingernails.

“Bet you can snatch fish out of a river with those.”

“No, they’re not fake,” Claudia said, ignoring Mary’s comment. “And yes, you can go in.” She nodded toward the door behind her.

“If you hear screaming, it’ll be Harvey. But don’t worry, that’s what he paid for,” Mary said, and shot her a wink.

“No prob,” the woman said, as if what Mary had just said was perfectly ordinary.

Mary walked through the small waiting area with a loveseat, two chairs, and a curvy coffee table stacked with entertainment industry pubs.

She pushed open the door, which was already slightly ajar, and stepped into Mitchell’s office. It was a large space, lined on all sides with glass that provided views of the surrounding greenery.

Mitchell’s desk was solid black and solid wood, stacked high with notes, paper and books. He looked up at her.

“Ah, the p.i. who threatened to go to the press if I didn’t see her,” he said, his voice booming with a deep richness that didn’t get its just desserts through television speakers.

He was dressed in a shirt and tie, Mary noted the blue sportcoat tossed over the back of one of the visitors chairs.

“Thank you for that completely accurate assessment,” Mary said. “That’s me in a nutshell.”

He stood and extended his hand. Mary took it. “So you’re Brent’s nice, huh? I can see a slight resemblance. You have all of his good, none of his bad,” he said.

“Brent didn’t have any bad looks. That’s why he was so lucky with the ladies.”

“I wasn’t talking about looks,” Mitchell said. He gestured Mary to the visitor chair that wasn’t holding the blue sportcoat.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, moving to the little bar off to the side. “It’s almost five, isn’t it?”

“Three-thirty,” Mary said.

“Close enough.”

He poured himself a scotch.

“Club soda,” Mary said.

“Boo,” Mitchell said.

Mitchell fixed the drinks and brought Mary’s to her. He then sat behind the desk and sipped.

“So how’s business?” Mary said.

“Good, good,” Mitchell said. “Ratings as good as ever. I’ve got three development deals on the table. This is the big time,” he said.

“I’m happy for you. So tell me how you found out about my uncle.”

“The news. Just like everyone else.”

Mitchell rocked in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He leaned forward, took a drink, then rocked back and again examined the ceiling.

“ So tell me about you and the gang,” Mary said. “Brent’s old gang. Way back when,” Mary said.

Mitchell’s head dropped down and he looked her in the eye. “We had fun,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

“So much fun that someone would want to murder Brent?” Mary said.

“I don’t know anything about that. Brent f*cked, and f*cked over, a lot of women. That didn’t go over well with the women, naturally, or some of the men, frankly. Old boyfriends, new boyfriends, brothers, fathers, uncles, sons, you name it. Brent pissed them all off.”

Mary pretended to take a drink as Mitchell looked at her, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.

“I’m a big believer in instinct, Mr. Mitchell,” Mary said. “And something’s telling me that this isn’t about a lover scorned. Somebody is killing off people from the ‘old gang’ as it were. Brent. Barry Lund. Noah Baxter. Dicky Kay.”

“Dicky’s dead?” Mitchell asked, his voice incredulous.

“Mm hmm. A glorious death on his ship of wonders the Diver Down.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mitchell said. His face had gone pale. Mary didn’t think he was acting. He was scared. But of what she wasn’t sure.

“I heard about Noah Baxter. Somebody shot him,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah,” Mary said. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“He tried to kill me first. And he was a bad dresser.”

“Jesus! What the f*ck is going on?”

“I have no idea. So who do you think it is?”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s killing off you old unfunny f*cks.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

“Just kidding,” Mary said. “But what do you think? Anyone from the old gang come to mind? Anyone who hated all of you and wouldn’t mind knocking you off one by one?”

“Everybody f*cking hated us,” he said. “A lot of us weren’t stars. But we were writers, actors, producers, behind-the-scenes guys who made it happen. We ended up being quite a power to reckon with. Not bad for a bunch of guys who just started partying together and success just kind of showed up. Not to mention the fact that between Brent, Braggs and myself, half the hot ladies in Hollywood were getting laid on a regular basis.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

“I’m just stating the facts, ma’am,” he said.

“Fine,” Mary said. “Let’s get down to specifics.”

“Oh, looks like I got down to the bottom of my glass,” he said and went and refilled his scotch receptacle.

Mary waited until he had returned to his chair. “David Kenum,” she said.

Before he could answer, Claudia “The Claw” Ridner poked her head in. “Mr. Mitchell? You’ve got a pre-pro meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Mitchell nodded and waved her away.

“Let’s make this quick.”

“David Kenum,” Mary repeated.

“Oh God. Psycho. Utterly nuts. Mean, vicious, violent. He killed a girl. Probably more than one. He’s in prison.”

“Actually, he got out last week.”

“Oh Lord have mercy on us all,” Mitchell said.

“Know where he might be?”

“F*ck no!”

“Think he might be behind all of this?”

“Hell yes! The guy’s a basket case. He’s probably killed a dozen people we don’t know about!”

“Has he ever contacted you?”

“No. Never. I would remember because I would have f*cking shit my pants.”

“All right. Marie Stevens.”

He turned slightly in his chair. The first time he’d shifted since she started asking questions. Mary noted the move.

“Nice girl,” Mitchell said. “A little weird. But nice.”

“Know where she is?”

“God, I haven’t heard from her in twenty years. She just sort of disappeared.”

Mary made a note to check a third database that sometimes revealed information her primary sources didn’t.

“That f*cking Kenum,” Mitchell said. “One time I was banging this girl in the bathroom,” Mitchell stopped and looked at Mary. “Sorry, but…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard plenty of stories regarding sex in bathrooms. I was thinking of making a coffee table book about it.”

“Anyway – I was doing this chick in the bathroom and all of a sudden I feel this pain on my throat. I thought it was weird. Was I tangled in something? Then I turn my head and there’s Kenum. He said he wanted to cut my throat.” Mitchell shook his head.

“What happened then?” Mary said.

“Limp dick happened, that’s what. I was a horny sonofabitch, but show me a guy who can f*ck someone while a knife is at his throat.”

Mary nodded. “That’s a cute story,” she said. “Bet you always tell that around the holidays.”

The secretary poked her head back in.

“Mr. Mitchell…”

He got up and breezed past Mary.

“Sorry, showbiz calls.”

Mary followed him out.