Death by Sarcasm

Thirty-five

She hesitated for a second. Answer it, and the caller knows something is wrong. Let it go to voicemail, well, the caller might think something is up, but wouldn’t know for sure.

Mary let the call go to voicemail and she drove straight to her office.

Years back she had subscribed to a number of services that were on the questionable side of legality. It’s like the Spy stores that sell hidden cameras even though secretly videotaping people is technically illegal.

Same idea.

But one of her favorites of the services was the phone number database. Rather than calling an operator and trying to con him or her out of an address, which Mary had become quite adept at doing, now she simply had to open up the database, type in a phone number, and it would spit out an address. The database itself was updated frequently, one of its key selling points.

Now, Mary took out Mitchell’s cell phone and accessed the phone log. The first number listed was the most recent call. Mary checked the voicemail indicator – it showed no message waiting. So the caller hadn’t left a message.

She wrote down the number, then typed it into the database and waited while the system did its thing. Moments later, an address popped up on her computer screen. She jotted that down beneath the phone number.

It took nearly two hours to go through Mitchell’s entire phone library. Most of the numbers and their matching names and addresses she was able to cross off the list, obviously things like Mitchell’s office number, his own home phone, and his voicemail. She recognized one number Mitchell had repeatedly called and its corresponding address: the apartment right across from hers. A spy. That’s all McAllister had been. Either an employee of Mitchell’s or a p.i. Mary forced it from her mind or she would start crying immediately, and she had work to do. She studied the list and the other addresses she recognized as Mitchell’s colleagues or other businesses.

She had a handful of names and addresses that she was not able to eliminate from the list of possibilities.

Mary accessed a second program, another premium software and Internet package, that let her do people searches. She fed the remaining names and addresses into this program and waited for the response.

When they did come back, Mary was able to eliminate most of them quickly.

It was the entries without any history that caught her eye. And there was only one such entry.

It was listed as a J. Markowitz. The address was in Venice. The name rang a very distant bell in Mary’s head. She knew she’d heard it from somewhere.

A J. Markowitz living in Venice, with virtually no history as a human being.

Mary knew she was close.

Jake’s name appeared on her cell phone moments after the first ring. She was exiting the 10 freeway and taking 4th Street when she punched in.

“Hi,” Mary said. “I can’t come to the phone right now so leave a message, or for more options, stop playing with your nuts, hang up, and try again.”

“Cute, Mary.”

“Thank you,” Mary said. “That’s actually the system greeting.”

There was a pause as Jake said something she couldn’t quite make out.

“What do you need, Big Boy?” Mary said. “A career advisor?”

“You know, a crime scene just isn’t the same without you, Mary,” Jake said.

Mary paused before responding. Her nerves were frayed and she wanted to clue Jake in on everything that had happened, but she was worried that if she did, he’d tell Davies and there’d be an APB out on her instantly.

“And the underwear section of a Wal-Mart flyer just isn’t the same without you, Jake,” she said, after a deep breath. She had to stay strong for just a little while longer. A homeless man’s shopping cart shot out into the street, and Mary swerved to avoid it. Her tires squealed and she hoped Jake hadn’t heard.

“So somebody blew Harvey Mitchell’s head off,” Jake said with a tired voice.

“I bet his hair is still perfectly in place.”

“Actually, not. Most of it is gone along with chunks of his head.”

“That’s too bad. And you thought his monologues were bad before,” she said. “This is going to hurt his ratings.”

She heard Jake sigh on his end of the line.

“Where does he live, anyway? On Crenshaw?” Mary said.

Mary swung onto Ocean Park Drive headed for Venice’s Main Street. Her heart was racing right along with the engine of the car. It was a challenge to keep her voice level.

“No, Mary, he actually lives in Malibu. I’m surprised you forgot so soon,” he said.

“What the heck are you talking about, Jakie?” Mary said. “Are you doing some of that auto eroticism stuff? Shutting off oxygen to the brain?”

“Well,” Jake said. “It seems there was somebody here when Mitchell was shot. And the physical description sounds an awful lot like you.”

“A total hottie with a huge rack and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of?” Mary said. “Who said that? Give him my number.”

“So I take it you’re not coming over to chat with us?”

“Hey, I’m working and I don’t even know where this Mitchell guy lives. I’m way out here in Long Beach,” Mary said. “But let me tell you with utter sincerity that it really chaps my ass I can’t help out you and Davies in some way.”

“You realize that if we get anything more conclusive, you’ll have to come downtown,” Jake said.

“Oh, of course,” Mary said. “I love to go downtown. Maybe we can get some tacos somewhere? Oh, but you get so gassy…”

“Mary,” he said.

“Gotta run, honey!” she said, her voice taking on the chirp of a songbird. She thumbed the disconnect button on her cell, and tried to ignore the fact that her hand shook in the process.

The house was shabby chic. Whitewashed brick with white windows and light blue shutters. The landscaping in front was nice, if overgrown. There was no car in the driveway and the mailbox was empty.

J. Markowitz. Mary thought, the name was still bugging her. Where had she heard it? At her office? On the Internet in one of the many articles she’d read? At the comedy museum? At one of the comedy clubs? Mary shook her head. It wouldn’t come to her.

So she focused back on the house.

No lights on in any windows. But she knew someone lived here, at least recently. Someone who used a cell phone and called Harvey Mitchell, probably more than once.

Someone named J. Markowitz.

Mary reached inside her sportcoat and loosened the .45 in its holster. She was still mildly fearful of knocking on strange doors, after the one at the old guy’s apartment had proceeded to be blown to smithereens. Her breath was rapid and shallow, so she forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

The doorbell was to the right of the door, so Mary used the solid brick wall to shield her body as she rang the bell. She heard the resulting chime in the house and waited. Mary looked around the small neighborhood, no one seemed to be out and about. Further down at the intersection, she saw a woman walking a Great Dane. Can you imagine the size of that dog’s deposits, Mary thought. What’s she pick it up with, a catcher’s mitt and a grocery bag?

Mary turned back and rang the bell again, but still no answer. She reached across the door and rapped hard, three times. No one answered, but the door did open slightly.

Now her heart started beating even faster. Ducking into a strange house with no idea of who or how many people might be inside wasn’t one of her favorite things to do. Came right after knitting a quilt and just before the hot new thing in Hollywood: anal bleaching.

But that name, J. Markowitz. Mary knew it meant something. So she pushed the door open and stepped inside.