Death by Sarcasm (21 page)

“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.

E
ven in the dim light, it was easy to make out the bodies.

One just four feet or so from the door. One sprawled in front of a wingback chair. Another slumped against a sideboard. And one halfway into the kitchen, only the legs were visible.

“Maybe this is some kind of modern art piece” Mary said softly. “Four old dead guys in living room. Artist unknown.”

She bent down to the nearest old guy.

Nope, it wasn’t art. It was blood. The kind that pours out of a body.

The bullet hole in the side of his head kind of confirmed it as well.

The .45 was Mary’s hand as she silently walked into the middle of the room.

The killer had come from the hallway, Mary thought. Had somehow distracted the guys and then silently appeared and started shooting.

Popped the guy in front of the hallway, near the chair. Then probably took out the guy standing near the kitchen, and the guy by the sideboard. And then the last shot took out the guy who’d almost made it out the front door, but not quite. Four fast shots. Four old guys, dead.

Mary went into the kitchen, stepped carefully over the dead guy.

Nothing there but a wide pool of dark blood. And there truly was nothing there. No soap by the sink. No salt and pepper shakers, grocery lists, food on the counter. It was as barren as North Dakota.

Mary went upstairs and found the same thing. Rooms, with furniture and working electricity, but no evidence that anyone lived there.

She went back downstairs into the living room and thought it through a little more. Mary studied what was left of the faces of the dead men and quickly realized that she recognized all of them.

Prescott. The tall one.

Mark something.

Frank or maybe Franklin. A chubby little bowling ball of a guy.

And the white-haired guy. His last name was Castro.

The last time she’d seen them, they’d all been snickering in Aunt Alice’s living room about Mary. Making bad jokes and lewd suggestions.

Well, they were still putting on a show, just not the kind they would have liked.

Talk about escalation of violence. All four of these guys, and then Mitchell.

Christ, there was no one left.

The phone rang and Mary traced it to the kitchen. It was hung on the wall and had a built-in answering machine.

Mary waited, wanting to get the hell out of the kill zone, but she desperately wanted to hear who was calling.

There was no answering message, just a beep.

And then a voice came on.

It was a voice Mary recognized.

“Mary, please…”

There was a crash and then the machine beeped. But Mary didn’t hear it because she was already out the door halfway to her car.

She had to get there fast.

Or Alice would die.

She drove like Stevie Wonder on crystal meth.

On the sidewalk when necessary, running red lights, blasting the horn nonstop. She managed to take out a couple city waste containers, a bike and a newspaper kiosk.

The Accord would definitely require some body work by the time she was done.

When she got to Alice’s house, Mary was pouring sweat and her car’s tires were smoking. But it didn’t matter, because she pulled off of the street and drove straight into the yard, at an angle. She hit the front door with the corner of her bumper and it crashed inward. Mary’s car shook with the impact, and then she was out of the car, gun in hand, sliding across the hood into the living room.

Later, Mary was never able to quite figure out what Whitney Braggs’ plan was. Because she was already raising her gun when he stepped out from behind Aunt Alice, who was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, held upright by Braggs. Had he planned to negotiate with Mary, using Alice as a human shield? Was it in his mind to kill her immediately?

She never knew.

Because she shot him.

It wasn’t that difficult. With Alice tied up, Mary knew she wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. So it wasn’t so much that she aimed at Braggs, she simply aimed up and over from Alice. If Braggs was there, great. If not, she’d try again.

But Braggs didn’t move. He only moved when the .45 slug ripped out his throat. He staggered back, his grip on Alice loosened and she sagged to the ground. The gun in his hand fired, and Mary felt a hammer blow to her left leg. It spun her sideways, but now she poured the bullets at Braggs in a tight pattern, high. She shredded his upper chest and he crashed into the wall, sliding down to the ground. His gun dropped at his feet.

Mary limped over to Aunt Alice and freed her. She sat up, rubbed her wrists and surveyed the destruction in her living room. “I knew I should’ve gotten Scotchgard for the carpet!”

Mary went to Braggs and knelt beside him, her left leg screaming in pain, her sock and shoe filling with blood.

She put the smoking barrel of the .45 against his temple.

“Tell me where she is,” Mary said. “Where is she?”

Braggs tried to answer, but blood gurgled in his mouth and then his throat made a horrible sound. Mary saw the damage her first shot had done.

She reached out and wrapped her hand around his throat and squeezed slightly, to compress what was left of the vocal cords.

“Where is she?” she asked.

He made another garbling sound but this time, she understood.

“
The house
.”

S
he should have known. Really, she couldn’t let herself off the hook for this one. Mary should have known that Marie Stevens would have taken up residence at the house where she’d been violated.

Because that’s what had happened, Mary was sure of it. It just wasn’t the typical form of violation most people experienced. It was the kind that could drive a person insane, and plant the seeds of revenge that would take on a life of their own.

The house was a ramshackle structure just off of PCH, north of Malibu. ‘Ramshackle’ being the operative word in this region of overpriced real estate. The sprawling, dilapidated ranch style beach house was still worth millions, despite its condition. And despite the Porsche parked in the driveway.

Mary pulled in behind it and went to the door. It opened before she could knock. The sight of the woman shocked Mary. Not because of any unsightly appearance or violent apparition, it was simply because Mary had met her.

“Hello, honey,” Marie Stevens said.

“Hello, Janet,” Mary said. Mary had reloaded the .45 and tied a makeshift bandage around her leg with a kitchen towel from Alice’s. It hurt like hell and Mary didn’t know how much blood she’d lost, but her head felt funny.

“How’s my favorite talent agent?” Mary said. So stupid. Janet Markowitz had been the sarcastic, but very funny, talent agent in the comedy club. The same comedy club where Mary had been looking for the fat witness who’d had a crush on a female comic who was known for her leather pants. The old lady had acted half in the bag, but her wit had been razor sharp.

“Come in, Mary, I promise I won’t bite,” the old woman said.

Mary recognized the face in the picture with the face now in front of her. In the comedy club, it had been dark and smoky. Now, in the unforgiving light, Marie Stevens actually looked better. Beneath the wrinkles and yellowed skin and eyes that spoke of a road filled with nasty crashes, were the bones of a very beautiful woman. Mary could see why her uncle and his cronies would have liked to have her around.

Mary slipped her hand inside her coat and when it came out, it had the .45 resting in its grip.

“The lack of trust is hurtful, dear,” the old woman said. “Very hurtful.”

The place was just as uncared for inside as out. There was detritus scattered here and there, as well as empty beer cans, cigarette butts and fast food wrappers.

The only place that seemed cared for was a dining room table with a computer humming quietly away, its bright screen the only source of light other than the sun through the many windows.

“Nice little place you got here,” Mary said. “What kind of mortgage do you have, thirty year, fifteen year, adjustable ARM?”

“It’s as if Brent Cooper had appeared in the guise of a lovely young woman,” Marie Stevens said.

“Or did you already pay it off – with Harvey Mitchell’s money?”

Marie Stevens sat down at her computer and swung her chair around to face Mary. Mary sat down in the chair opposite her and put her .45 on the table between them.

“What kind of woman do you think I am?” the old lady said.

“In order to answer that I would have to know what they did to you way back when, in this house.”

“What makes you think they did something to me?” The old woman smiled, the teeth were her own, straight and yellowed from cigarettes.

“Why else would Mitchell pay you blackmail, hire another p.i. to try to keep tabs on me and kill me?” Mary said. “And why else would Whitney Braggs try to kill me and everyone else? Obviously, you had them all by the balls.”

The old woman sighed. She turned and looked out toward the windows, out at the gently rolling Pacific.

“They raped me,” she said, still turned away from Mary. “Both literally and comedically.”

“Comedically?” Mary said.

She nodded. “They supplied the booze, the drugs, the sex, and I supplied the one-liners, the skits, the acts, and they took it all.” The old woman’s voice was thick and raspy. She waved a wrinkled hand in the air. Mary could smell the woman’s perfume.

“They took it all and made great careers out of it,” Marie Stevens said. “And then when I wore out, they had me tossed into an institution while they all got rich off my work.”

The sound of a car speeding by on PCH reached Mary’s ears.

“So that’s where you were all these years?” Mary said. “An institution?”

The old woman nodded. “Under a different name,” she said. “I got out awhile back and began exacting my revenge. I’d had quite a long time to plan it. Thirty years or so. Give or take a lifetime.”

“Some people take up gardening or pottery,” Mary said.

“Some people needed to die,” the old woman countered.

Mary sighed. “So who actually killed Brent?”

“Braggs,” the old woman said. “He did the dirty work. I was the brains. But Braggs is psychotic. I kept you alive because I knew in the end, I would need you to take him out. I didn’t think I could do it.”

Mary nodded. She was angry. Angry about the whole thing. That this woman had murdered her uncle. That her uncle had played a part in destroying this woman’s life for some money that didn’t last, and jokes that had long since been forgotten. But she couldn’t hurt the old woman.

“But you shouldn’t have hard feelings toward Braggs,” Marie Stevens said. “I had him shoot that McAllister jerk to keep you alive. Just before Braggs shot Harvey, the asshole.”

“That was very nice of Braggs,” Mary said. “I think I’ll send him a pick-me-up bouquet from FTD.”

The old woman looked at Mary. “Whatever Braggs was doing at Alice’s house, that was his own plan. I guess to tie up loose ends on his part.”

Mary felt blood trickle down her leg. There were now two Marie Stevenses in front of her.