Death by Sarcasm (15 page)

Mary treaded water and tried to clear her head. She could see Catalina in the distance, but there was no way she could swim that far. She gagged again and felt her stomach heave. Fear gripped her insides and she nearly panicked, her mind filled with images of her drowning and sharks ripping her apart. In an instant’s flash, she saw her balcony with her view of the Pacific and her head cleared.

She couldn’t swim the rest of the way to Catalina, she knew that for sure. And she certainly couldn’t swim back to L.A. That left her with only one option. To wait. It was a relatively busy area, with sailboats and speedboats and the occasional ferry.

But she was afraid how long she could last in the cold water, and how much blood was in the water. Sharks were known to be out this far.

She swam farther into the kelp. Look on the bright side, she thought. People pay top dollar for this. Probably at least $500 for a kelp bath at LeMerigot spa. Of course, they probably wouldn’t be bleeding and stranded out in the ocean with little chance to survive.

“There’s the positive spirit, Mary,” she said. “Hey, look on the bright side. Sharks generally don’t attack in the middle of the kelp. People drown all the time getting tangled in kelp, but sharks don’t attack.”

Mary put a hand up against the side of her head. It came away pinkish. She hoped that meant there wasn’t much there.

“Stupid,” she said. Someone had been hiding down below in the cabin. Because she’d been able to see the old man at the wheel out of the corner of her eye. So someone else had slipped out of the sleeping quarters, came up behind her, bonked her, and tossed her overboard.

Mary thought of the Discovery channel, of how seals would roll themselves up in kelp to keep them afloat and then nap. Maybe I should take a nap, she thought. Or find some clams and crack them on my belly like the seals.

Cold began to seep into her body. Not enough for hypothermia, but enough to give her a cold. Summer cold, Mary thought. They’re the worst.

So she waited. She was enveloped by cold. Her teeth chattered, and she was already exhausted from treading water. Once, she felt something slick and rubbery scrape against her leg and she nearly screamed.

Just when she thought she couldn’t last any longer and would have to try swimming the rest of the way to the island, she heard the sound of a motor.

It was a high-pitched whine, rather than the deep rumble of a boat. Mary peeled herself out of the kelp and swam toward the open ocean. Far off, she saw two jet skis on their way to Catalina.

She swam as fast as she could for ten minutes, as the jet skis came closer. Finally, when she thought she could get their attention, she surged out of the water and waved her arms up over her head. Survival water ballet.

There were two of them, and it was an awful moment when they seemed totally oblivious to her. Mary gathered her self and launched her body out of the water, waving her arms over hr head. It was the second rider who finally spotted her. He zoomed out past the leader, and herded him over toward Mary.

Minutes later, they pulled up next to her. They were covered in tattoos and had more piercings than Aunt Alice’s pin cushion.

“Dude, what happened?” the lead guy asked, displaying a tongue stud.

“What, you’ve never seen a mermaid before?” she said. She reached out and got ahold of the jet ski’s side.

“Lift me up and I’ll show you my tail,” she said.

“Cool, man!” the guy said and reached out for her.

It was a little tricky, but between Mary hoisting herself up, and the guy lifting, she was able to swing onto the back of the machine.

“We’re going to Catalina, dude” he said. “Get fucked up and then ride back!”

“I’m going to Catalina too,” Mary said. “To fuck up a couple of old men.”

“Kick ass, dude!” the guy said.

Finding a guy with the austere nickname of ‘Mungo’ shouldn’t have been a big challenge to Mary. But it was. Because Mungo certainly wasn’t really Mungo. What, someone would lie to me? Mary thought. Curse the idea!

Still, the old man had a boat and made deliveries. Mary was sure that part of it wasn’t a lie. After all, what did the guy do? Rent a frickin’ boat and make up some elaborate shipping lie to get her on board? No way.

After her new ‘best dude’ dropped her off at the pier, she went to the public bathroom and checked her cut, which was pretty small, and pulled out the small business card case she kept in her front pocket. In addition to business cards, she had an American Express card for emergencies tucked in the very back.

She went to the first store she could find and bought a pair of overpriced pants and a matching overpriced sweatshirt, went back to the public bathroom and changed. Her head hurt, and her body ached. Her stomach was queasy from all the saltwater she’d swallowed. She wanted to call Jake. A part of her still felt like she was bobbing out in the Pacific, alone and bleeding. As much as the idea of hearing his voice pleased her, the hassle of explaining how and why she’d ended up here outweighed the benefit.

She needed to sit down for awhile and get her bearings. She went to a place called the Blue Heron and ordered coffee.

No point going to the cops on the island. For one thing, they wouldn’t do much. And for another thing, they might call L.A. and that would cause a huge cock-up and she might wind up in the Catalina slammer for a day or two. Nuh-uh.

She sipped her coffee and thought about what had happened. Why Catalina? Just to get her out on a boat? That seemed sort of silly. They could have said Kenum was a sportfisherman or a worker on a cruise line or a shrimper. Was that a real word, ‘shrimper’? Mary didn’t know.

Mary sensed someone behind her and she turned, thinking it was the waitress.

“Dude,” he said.

It was the Goth Boy. Mr. Crazy Jet Ski to Catalina Life Saver.

“Hey,” Mary said. “Want a beer or are you headed for the polo club?”

He smiled, revealing the tongue stud, the slid back a chair and sat down.

Mary saw her waitress and nodded toward her new companion. She came over and Tongue Stud ordered a Rusty Nail.

She raised her coffee in a toast. “To my knight in shiny piercings,” Mary said. “What’s your name?”

“Lawrence,” he said.

Mary nearly spit out her coffee. “Lawrence?” she said.

“What,” he said. “You were expecting Spike? Or Snake?”

“Something reptilian, yes,” Mary answered. “But Lawrence is nice. It fits your perfectly. You look like one of the Hardy boys.”

The waitress delivered her hero’s Rusty Nail and Mary took the opportunity to consider the situation.

“So do you come to the island often?” she said.

“What, are you trying to pick me up?”

“No need to. I slipped some Special K into your drink there. When you pass out, I’m going to have my way with you.”

“Cool, dude! Be sure to leave some marks.”

“I’m still waiting for your answer,” Mary said.

He looked at her with his face blank.

“How often do you come to the island,” she said slowly.

“Pretty regular,” Lawrence said. “Every month or so. Why?”

“Because, I’m looking for the old bastard who tossed me off his boat. Said his name was Mungo and that he ran supplies in here on a regular basis. Ring any bells?”

“Nope,” Lawrence said. “What’d he look like?”

“Old. Tan.”

“Dude, that’s all that’s out here!”

“Maybe you’ve heard of his boat.” Mary said. “He’s a big Van Halen fan…”

“The Diver Down?” Lawrence said.

The look on Mary’s face answered the question.

“That’s Dicky, man. Dicky Kay.”

Mary set her coffee down and stood.

“Let’s go see this Dicky,” Mary said.

It was a short walk to the dock, and an even shorter walk to where the Diver Down sat in its slip.

“Gee, it’s not like he and his buddy attempted murder or anything and are trying to keep a low profile,” Mary said. She shook her head. Bad guys were so brazen these days. Throw a woman overboard, cruise into the harbor and take a nap. No big deal.

Mary called out, “Hey Dicky, you dropped something back in the ocean.” She wished she had her gun, but figured that they wouldn’t try to kill her right here, with all these people. Besides, she knew she could kick Dicky Kay’s ass, and she fully intended to do just that.

She and Lawrence waited but no response came.

“Maybe he’s sleeping, dude,” Lawrence said. “Or taking a crap.”

“Nothing gets the bowels moving faster than trying to kill someone,” Mary said.

Mary cupped her hands around her mouth. “Dicky, if you’re taking a crap, flush, wipe, then come out with your hands up. After you wash them, I mean.”

They waited, but there was no response. “Dude, I’m goin’ in,” Lawrence said. “I’m digging this. Feel like I’m on Cops.”

That was fine with Mary. She didn’t want to trespass, get in trouble and lose her p.i. license. She looked around, but nobody seemed to be interested in what they were doing. Until moments later when Lawrence burst from the boat’s cabin and started puking his way out of the boat and onto the deck.

“Bad Rusty Nail?” she said to him.

A couple people started looking over and Mary knew Lawrence was going to call the cops immediately. So she leapt onto the deck of the Diver Down and went straight to the cabin.

Once her eyes adjusted, she immediately saw Dicky. He was flat on his back on the floor, and his body looked like it had been subjected to the infamous Torture of a Thousand Cuts. His skin was literally slashed everywhere on his body. Great folds of it lay exposed, and folded over, revealing deep red crevasses of flesh.

There was a lot of blood.

But the blood seemed to be too splashed around. It covered the floor. And only the floor. None on the walls or the ceiling. Almost as if there was a pattern. She cocked her head.

And then she saw it.

The blood was smeared into letters.

Enjoy the floor show.

M
ary 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.”