Die Buying (7 page)

I’d been skeptical about roller derby, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. The women ranged in age from about twenty to almost forty and, like Kyra, were into it for the fun of skating and being part of a competitive team. Some of the women were muscle-bound, some were almost waiflike. Some sported tattoos, some didn’t. As the women whizzed around the track, with the jammers trying to lap the other team, I admired the way they worked together, the way a skater would scramble up if knocked down. There was definitely no crying in roller derby, not even when a nose got bloodied, a finger got jammed, or a hip got bruised in a fall.

I yelled along with the crowd, urging the Vengeance to pulverize the visitors, the Morganville Morgue. The Vengeance won, 147 to 113. Kyra celebrated with her team, then skated over to me and plunked down on the bleacher, gym bag in hand. She was breathing hard and had a smell of clean sweat about her.

“I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” she said, unlacing her skates.

“You say that every time.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true every time. And it gets truer every year. We’re not getting any younger.” She threw a Blue Devils sweatshirt over her tank top, pulled on matching sweatpants, and slipped on flip-flops decorated with beads and yarn wrapped around the straps. She wiggled her strong toes with their purple-polished nails as if glad to be out of the confining skates.

“It’s forty-two degrees out,” I said.

“I know.”

“Where to?”

We made a swing through the deli at the Giant, collecting an eclectic mix of sushi, tortilla soup, curried chicken salad, and mini éclairs, and headed back to my house. One story of brick front with forest green trim in a community that boasted a pool, lush landscaping, and quiet neighbors—my house might not be my parents’ California spread, but it was all mine. I’d bought the small ranch house, part of a planned “village” of similar homes, when I moved here just over a year ago. When the military medically retired me, I didn’t know where I wanted to live, although I knew I didn’t want to return to L.A. and be near my folks. The thought of Mom and Dad trying to coddle me, and my former friends politely not asking about my leg, convinced me I wanted to live as far away as possible. When Grandpa Atherton mentioned that a friend of his was selling the rancher that he’d used as a rental property, I drove out from Walter Reed—the military hospital in D.C. where I was doing my rehab—to view it. My mom had begged me to buy the house and move to Vernonville to “keep an eye on” Grandpa. I suspected she was likewise urging him to keep an eye on me, worried about my knee and my mind-set; being forced out of the military and discovering I couldn’t work as a cop had depressed me for a while.

Being offered the job at Fernglen Galleria sealed the deal. Having Kyra nearby was a huge bonus. I bought the house, even though it was a bit of a fixer-upper. The last renter had done some damage—I suspected he was either a rock star wannabe practicing Keith Richards’s hotel-room-trashing techniques, or had eight children or a pack of wolves. I’m not patient enough to be the do-it-yourself type; the “measure eight times, cut once” philosophy of construction, plus the need to make fourteen trips to the home improvement store in the middle of every project, drive me batty. So, I was hiring the work done as my mall paycheck allowed. The project currently underway was tiling the kitchen floor, since the renter had managed, in some never explained way, to scorch and burn several spots in the linoleum.

“I see progress,” Kyra said, surveying the tiled but ungrouted area in the breakfast nook that had expanded by several feet since she’d last visited. My current handyman, a flaky college kid trying to earn money for spring break, had left a wet saw pushed up against the butcher-block table, and the untiled portion of the floor was nothing but raw plywood. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in almost a week and he wasn’t returning my calls.

“Yeah, I expect
House Beautiful
to show up any day now,” I said. The clutter of trowels, buckets, and pallets of tile annoyed me, so I pulled some of Gran’s Noritake china from the cupboards and some Molson from the fridge, and led the way into my family room so we could watch
Dancing with the Stars
, our Monday-night ritual.

“So, what’s with the murder?” Kyra asked during the first commercial break. She popped a piece of sushi into her mouth, having started with the éclairs.

I told her what I knew about Jackson Porter’s death, which wasn’t much. “Had you heard any talk about his development, Olympus?” I asked. “Among the mall merchants, I mean?”

“Some. I wasn’t worried about it.”

“You run a magic store,” I pointed out. “I doubt Olympus was going to cut into your business.”

“Exactly.” She relaxed back against the terra cotta–colored leather sofa and took a swallow of beer.

“So who was worried?”

She slanted me a glance from her long, narrow eyes. “Mostly the clothing boutique owners and the sporting goods people. Finola Craig, Terrence Chou of the Upper Limit, Colin at Pete’s Sporting Goods. She was trying to get an injunction or a stay of execution or whatever you call it to stop the construction. She was working with Dyson Harding at the university, the archeologist who was against the resort because it was being built on Native American burial grounds, or something like that.”

“I vaguely remember reading about that,” I said. I had to admit I paid more attention to the international news, especially updates on the military’s progress in the Middle East, than the local news.

A growling noise came from behind us, and Kyra and I looked over our shoulders to where a giant rust-colored cat sat behind the sofa, twitching his truncated tail. Fubar. I’d adopted him as a young stray a year ago when I’d been released from the hospital. He had a mangled ear and a shortened tail, and I didn’t know if he’d tangled with a coyote, a car, or an abusive owner. After our first month together, when I’d imprisoned him indoors in order to keep him safe, we’d come to an agreement: we could each come and go as we pleased. To that end, I installed a cat door and he stopped flaying the furniture. Now, he blinked his golden eyes at me, demanding applause. A dead mouse dangled from his mouth.

“I hope you found that outside, Fubar,” Kyra said, eyeing the rodent with distaste.

“Of course he did,” I said with more certainty than I felt. Fetching a roll of paper towels from the kitchen, I persuaded Fubar to give up his trophy by bribing him with some hamburger. I was pretty sure Fubar only bothered to hunt in order to coerce me into upgrading his menu. I quickly shrouded the little victim in Brawny and put him in the outside trash. When I returned, Fubar had settled on Kyra’s lap and was purring loudly as she provided commentary on the samba talents of an Olympic javelin thrower.

“You could shake your booty better than that,” she told the cat. “I don’t know why they’ve never had a roller skater on the show.”

“The show is called
Dancing with the Stars
,” I said, emphasizing the last word.

“Oh, please. Like you ever heard of that guy who was in a boy band two decades ago. Or that reality ‘star’ whose only source of protein is insects.”

“Call up the producer. Maybe they’ll book you.”

“Nah. I couldn’t be away from the store that long. How about your dad?”

I choked on a bit of curried chicken. “Please, don’t give him any ideas.” The idea of being confronted with my father’s latest face-lift on TV every Monday was enough to ruin my appetite. I glared at Kyra.

Laughing, she changed the subject. “So, have you met the new cookie man? He is hotter than a snickerdoodle straight out of the oven.” She flashed a lascivious grin.

“Cookie man?”

“The guy who bought the cookie franchise in the food court,” Kyra said impatiently. “Jay Callahan. I introduced myself today. We’re going out Thursday night.”

“Fast work.” I dragged the conversation back to the murder. “If you hear anyone talking about Porter or the resort, can you let me know?”

“You want me to spy for you?”

“Not exactly. Just fill me in on the gossip. People say things in front of you that they don’t mention to me. It’s the uniform.”

“Are you supposed to be investigating this murder?” Kyra asked, keeping her gaze on the television where a soap opera star who should have had more dignity, despite her character’s thirteen marriages, four illegitimate children, amnesia, and stint as a circus aerialist, writhed on the floor as her professional partner hopped over her. “I’d think Captain Was-a-bitch would rather have you ticketing litterbugs.”

“Maybe. But the detective in charge of the case has made me his ‘mall liaison,’ so I’m going to do as much liaisoning as I can get away with, Woskowicz be damned.”

When Tuesday morning
rolled around, I found myself more eager to get to the mall than I had been in months. I knew it was the challenge of the murder drawing me in. That, and the opportunity to round up more reptiles, of course. Feeling generous, I bought Joel a huge cinnamon bun at the coffee place where I got my first cup of caffeine. I put it on his desk with a flourish and he beamed.

“Thanks, EJ!”

“It’s about time,” Weasel growled, dark stubble shadowing his jawline. “Let’s do the turnover briefing so I can get out of here.”

“I’m twenty minutes early,” I pointed out, shoving my gym bag under my desk.

“Yeah, well, ya want a medal?” He rolled his chair over beside me, and I leaned away from his funk, a mix of sweat, cigarette smoke, and old beer. Either the man never washed his uniforms—completely possible—or he’d been boozing it up on duty—also possible. “Nothing much happened last night,” Weasel said, not referring to any notes. “Those stupid-ass kids tagged another car about oh-one-hundred hours.”

“What’d they write this time?” Joel asked around a mouthful of sticky bun.

“ ‘Love the Lord Ur God With All Ur Heart,’” Weasel sneered, making a heart shape in the air for the last word.

“ ‘And with all your soul and all your mind.’ Matthew 22:37,” Joel supplied. “What?” he asked when Weasel and I stared at him. “I paid attention in Sunday school.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think the owner of that Jaguar XKE is liking the Bible very much right now,” Weasel said with a laugh that turned into a phlegmy cough.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nah,” Weasel said. “Quiet as a tomb.” He shoved to his feet, checking his cell phone. “I’m outta here. When the boss comes in, tell him I’ll see him at Rauncho’s at the usual time.”

“Sure thing, Weasel,” Joel said, making a note.

When Weasel had plodded out, carrying a rank-smelling cooler, I turned to Joel. “Doesn’t the concept of a Christian graffiti gang seem like an oxymoron? I mean, isn’t there something in the Bible about thou shalt not deface your neighbor’s property?”

Joel pretended to consider it, licking sugar from his lips. “Nope. Don’t think so. The only thing about writing I remember in the Bible is Moses with the stone tablets, and I don’t think the Ten Commandments count as graffiti.”

“Hello?”

We turned to see a woman pushing through the glass door. She brought to mind the word “puffy.” Puffy blond hair, the kind I associate with Texas debutantes, poofed high on the crown of her head and flipped out slightly at jaw length. A puffy face and slightly red nose spoke to overindulgence last night or a cold, and she wore a puffy white quilted jacket with gold metal zippers scoring it in half a dozen places. White leggings and velvet mules trimmed with marabou finished a look that might have worked on a teenager but not on the fifty-something she appeared to be. “I’m Elena Porter,” she said through coral-lipsticked, collagened (puffy) lips. “The police told me EJ Ferris found my husband yesterday. I’d like to talk to him, if he’s here?” She looked at Joel.

“I’m Emma-Joy Ferris,” I said, rising to shake her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Porter.”

She pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket, dislodging a glove. “Yes, well, I’m just getting used to the idea. It hasn’t really hit me yet.” She dabbed at her eyes.

Stooping to pick up her glove, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Can we talk in private?” she asked. “And I could really use some coffee.” She fixed her eyes on my cup like a vampire staring at a pint of O-positive.

“Sure. Let’s walk down to the Bean Bonanza kiosk. It’s the only thing open right now. Suzie makes a lot of money from the mall walkers.” I kept up a flow of meaningless prattle as we walked to the Bean Bonanza and bought our coffee from the energetic young entrepreneur who seemed to run the kiosk eighteen hours a day by herself. I’d often wondered how she managed potty breaks. Mrs. Porter didn’t say much until we’d settled on a bench in front of the bookstore and she’d had several sips from her cup.

“I’m not usually so out of it,” she apologized. “But what with my maid quitting yesterday, on top of the news about Jackson, and I haven’t even been able to find Robbie to tell him . . .” She blinked back tears.