Hard Play Page 2

  “Who’s Bill? Shown up where?”

  Frank was asking the typical questions.

  “The gym. Bill’s the manager.”

  Ed was giving the worst of answers.

  “Some people stop going to the gym, Ed.” Frank mocked as he tucked away the folder. “Hell, I stopped years ago.”

  “That’s not it at all. No one in the group has heard from her.”

  Frank Black kept detailed records of every case he ever worked on, but the records he kept on the people he worked with, they were comprehensive, obsessive even. Each and every bit of information, from Social Security numbers and next of kin to investments and schedules, was in those files. The few things he didn’t already have stored away, he knew just how to access.

  Frank tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and stood. With the invoice in hand, he moved across the room to a small computer desk in the corner. He plugged away at the keyboard, paused, then turned to face Ed.

  “No one else thinks she’s missing,” he announced and then turned back to the computer.

  It didn’t make Ed feel any better.

  “This is interesting, though,” Frank added, “Her credit history shows all her accounts were drained last week.”

  He turned back to Ed and asked, “Was she planning a trip?”

  Ed shook his head.

  “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “Interesting, indeed,” Frank whispered, then he said, “I’ve got the address. It’s on this gym bill. Let’s pay her a visit and see if all is on the up and up. Put your old worry to rest.”

  Frank stood up, motioning with his hand for Ed to get up too. They headed toward the front door, Frank grabbed a button-down shirt off the back of the couch, put it on and swooped up his cigarettes. As Frank locked up his apartment he turned to Ed.

  “You should’ve done your workout this morning. A few dozen miles on the bike and you’d be too tired to worry about this.”

  Ed laughed it off and said, “But then you’d be evicted.”

  Frank grumbled loud enough to show his displeasure, then he said, “We’re taking your car. We’re using your gas.”

  “Fine,” the old man agreed. “But, you can’t smoke in my car.”

  Frank grumbled again then said, “Fine. I gotta grab something.”

  He moved diagonally across the parking lot to a pale-yellow Ambassador rag-top convertible parked under the awning. He popped open the passenger door, grabbed a small black bag from inside the glove compartment, and headed back to Ed’s blue Dodge.

  Mary-Beth’s house was just up the 101, in Calabasas; only 20 miles across the Valley. Still, it took just under an hour to fare the traffic.

  As they wound their way up into the Santa Monica Mountains and past the Calabasas Country Club, the sounds of congested traffic died down. It was quiet in the hills of Calabasas—nothing out of the ordinary. This part of town was newer. The city planners gave it a bit more thought than the rest of the Valley or maybe just a bit more money. The large cookie-cutter homes sprawled across the mountainside, roads winding in a spiderweb of residential crossings throughout the city. Every other intersection linked to the next by two-lane roundabouts, which work great in theory, but in California practice, no one’s ever sure what they should do; a yield becomes a stop sign, a roundabout becomes a traffic nightmare. Fortunately for Frank and Ed, neighborhoods like this one are practically deserted in the early morning. The men have already left to traverse the freeways into the city and the few households with kids to transport around are still out dropping the riff-raff at school. The ones without children, those women were still at home drinking or popping Valiums or other designer pills or waiting for their affairs to arrive for an early morning shag. Frank liked neighborhoods like this one. For one, they bore the bulk of his business—affairs—and second, no one's paying attention. They don't see him lurking around. You’d think it’d be the opposite in such a hoity-toity spot, but these sorts of people, they’ve got their eye on the dollar sign, not the streets.

  First thing Frank noticed upon arriving was that the judge’s driveway was empty. He told Ed to park down the street anyway, and he did. Frank lit a cigarette as the two of them walked up the steep hill to her McMansion.

  “You know you can’t smoke in Calabasas,” Ed snorted.

  Frank looked at Ed over his glasses. “The whole city?”

  “The whole city.”

  Frank dipped down and shoved the cigarette beneath the toe of his boot, snipping off the cherried end and placing it back in his pack.

  Frank mumbled into his chest as he tucked the pack back in his pocket, “I wonder how they enforce that.”

  A row of red bricks perforated the flawless, neon-green grass of Johnson’s yard. Cutting a winding path from the street, through the immaculate rose bushes and well maintained hedges, the bricks led to a set of large oak double doors sitting atop a brick porch lined with a white wooden railing. The entire neighborhood smelled like freshly cut grass and looking up and down the street you could tell that all the lawns were perfectly maintained. As Frank and Ed traversed the little brick road to the front door, the faint yet no-less-sweet scent of roses and mint leaf filled the air.

  Landing on the porch, Frank knocked. Twice. Loud and hard.

  No answer.

  Ed raised his fist to knock again but Frank held him back and pointed to the overstuffed mailbox clinging to the wall. Bills stuck out in tufts, corners folded, magazines torn, envelopes tattered. The mailman made no effort fix the problem. He just kept jamming things in the slot. Frank grabbed the stack.

  As he thumbed through the pile, Shaking his head, Frank said, “Not a good sign. Let’s go around back.”

  The backyard looked like the polar bear exhibit at the zoo. A massive stone facade surrounded a pristine pool complete with waterslide, grotto and hot tub. Where there wasn’t stone or water, there was just more of that neatly trimmed, neon-green grass.

  Frank sneered.

  “How often do you think she used the water slide?”

  “Well…”

  Frank cut him off, “Rhetoric, Ed. Rhetoric.”

  Frank moved toward the sliding glass doors that lined the back patio. Crouching before one of the door’s handles, he pulled out his small black bag and set the stack of mail beside him.

  “What’s that?” Ed asked as he leaned over Frank’s shoulder.

  “Lock pick kit,” he said quietly as he peeled apart the Velcro on the case.

  As soon as he opened it, he shut it again.

  “Shit,” he said, “It’s not here.”

  “What’s not here?”

  Frank stood and motioned for Ed to step back. Picking up a small, decorative stone from the patio, Frank held it up, showing it to Ed, tossing it up and down in his hand like a baseball.

  Before Ed could say a word otherwise, Frank pitched the rock over-arm through the door. The tile below and the carpet inside was showered with broken glass.

  Ed stared in awe as Frank stepped over the shards of glass and into the living room.

  “That’s breaking and entering, Frank.”

  “You want my help. We do it my way,” Frank said.

  As soon as he was inside, Frank turned back to Ed, saying, “She ain’t here.”

  “How do you know?”

  He looked at Ed and cocked his head. He Lifted one eyebrow, lit a cigarette, and repeated, “She’s not here.”

  Ed stood motionless on the patio as Frank disappeared into the house. A few minutes later he emerged with another stack of papers and a small day-planner. He picked up the stack of mail on the ground and tossed it through the broken window, scattering it across the living room floor.

  “Here’s something that wasn’t in the public record,” Frank said as he flipped through the various envelopes; utility bills, bank statements and pension checks he had taken from inside.

  Then, looking up from the pile, he asked, “Did you know she has another house in Agua Dulce?
”

  Ed shook his head.

  Frank sighed, “We should probably check it out.”

  Just over an hour later, the two men pulled up to the small cabin-like house of Judge Mary-Beth Johnson in Agua Dulce. It sat in an unfinished suburban development hidden away in the canyon. There wasn’t another occupied house on the street; all the driveways were empty except this one. Ed recognized her car right away and let out a sigh of relief. He pulled up behind it and threw his Dodge in park.

  “Thank God, I’m glad she’s here!” Ed was excited like a little kid, practically skipping as he and Frank got out of the vehicle.

  “I wouldn’t thank him just yet,” Frank warned, “You smell that?”

  Frank leaned toward the trunk of Mary-Beth’s car and took a big whiff. He jerked his head back and turned away.

  “That’s death,” he said, moving to the driver’s side.

  Opening the door, he reached in and then held the keys up, shaking them at Ed.

  “Your turn.”

  Frank tossed the keys to Ed. He didn’t move to catch them. They whizzed right by his head and landed flat in the rock-bed excuse for a front lawn.

  Ed shook his head.

  “I don’t think so, Frank. This is your territory.” He stepped back to his Dodge, one leg stuffed inside and the other planted on the concrete, looking like he was going to hop in and tear down the street. As if he could run from it. He knew he couldn’t. In that moment, Ed was wishing he’d stayed at the gym.

  Frank fished the keys out of the rocks and got behind the car. He held his breath as he pushed the key in and turned. The trunk clicked open and death poured out. Frank held his shirt over his mouth and nose as he leaned into the trunk. The wet, rotting air escaped past Frank, fogging up his glasses and blurring his view. He pulled the shades off and placed them on the back of his neck.

  “Come look at this, Ed.”

  He waved his free hand without lifting his head from the trunk.

  “No,” Ed cried.

  Frank stood upright and dashed to Ed, grabbing him by the sleeve.

  “You dragged me out here. You’re looking,” Frank growled as he pulled Ed to the trunk.

  “I think I found where her money went.”

  Frank and Ed stared into the trunk. There, amongst piles of cash, was Judge Mary-Beth Johnson’s body. The tight layers of plastic wrap across her face distorted her blood-red lips and pressed flat her gray curls. The money, fanned out in a bizarre mosaic, framed her head and shoulders with a mane of faded green. The shiny, mummy-like wrapping made her face jump out in stark contrast to the money below. Her eyes were wide open, empty and cold, her face frozen in a contorted upward gaze. Her knobby fingers rested against her neck, holding the cellophane in place.

  Ed’s phone rang. He fumbled it from his pocket while he stared into the dead judge’s eyes. His cheeks were full, his lips pursed, his stomach churning on the verge of vomit.

  “Yeah,” Ed murmured into the mouthpiece.

  He waited a moment, then said, “No. We found her.”

  Frank snatched the phone from his hand and slapped it shut. Then handed it back to Ed and said, “Call the cops, idiot. Tell them not to bother the medics. We just need a meat wagon.”

  Chapter 3

  Forty-five minutes after Ed stuttered and muttered to the 911 operator, the sheriff’s department showed. Typical of the outlander law-types; too little manpower to cover too great an area. They taped off the driveway despite the obvious vacancy of the neighborhood, and left their lights flashing. A necessity of law enforcement in the cities, keeps out the looky-loos and rubberneckers, the picture-takers and the YouTubers. But, out here in the desert, here in this abandoned housing tract deep in the canyon, it was just overkill.

  Ed was sitting on the curb, his back to the bustle of officers in light brown moving around the car, snapping photos and marking out lines on the ground. Ed held a paper bag tight against his lips, taking deep breaths of air, trying to keep the bile, what was left of it, in his gut. Finally feeling composed, and his stomach settled, Ed hoisted himself off the curb.

  He was met by a thin man wearing a white coat and brandishing a clipboard. His brown hair was slicked back in a part. His jaw was long and narrow, kneading back and forth as he chewed his tongue. Every few gnashes a shock of hair would fall and he’d move it from his forehead with a shaky swipe of the hand. His eyes sat deep beneath a bushy eyebrow that only thinned a bit above the bridge of his long, pointy nose. He held the clipboard tight in one hand, his knuckles turning white from the grip.

  “Mr. Queen?” the man asked, his free hand rubbing the small of his back. “My name is Doctor Jim Dalton. I’ll be handling the investigation and autopsy of—”

  He paused and gripped the clipboard with both hands. He pulled it closer to his face to bring the words into focus, then ran a trembling finger across the page. “The autopsy of Ms. Johnson,” he said. Returning his eyes to Ed, he continued, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Johnson.”

  Ed answered Dr. Dalton’s questions as best he could. He recounted Mary-Beth’s absences at the gym and told Dalton of their visit to her home in Calabasas, being cautious enough with his version of the truth to leave out Frank’s blatant breaking and entering. He told Dalton about their years together as workout buddies and how the group was worried. He told, when asked, of his career as an apartment manager and how he originally met Johnson, years ago, during a Jazzercise class.

  At the end of the long list of questions, the medical examiner asked, “How’d you two know about her second house?”

  Ed shrugged. He knew better than to answer that one.

  Dalton, seeming satisfied with the answers Ed had given, waved him away and turned back to the crime scene. He made his way toward the trunk of the car and put his hand over the shoulder of a long-legged woman in a gray pencil skirt. Her white blouse was cinched tight around the waist and left to move with the breeze everywhere else.

  “Doctor Van,” Ed overheard him say as he handed her his clipboard, “I want you to talk to the other one.”

  As she turned, he added, “Ask him how they knew about her second house.”

  Ed realized he wasn’t just listening, he was staring. He made an about-face before she made eye contact with him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his shoulders back, attempting to look casual as he made his way down the street toward Frank.

  Frank, with a cigarette pinched in his teeth, was leaning against a telephone pole ten yards away from the crime tape and police cars. His knee was bent with his black boot pressed against the wood, looking like the Marlboro man, though a bit less pressed and sans the hat. The air waved and rippled just above the sidewalk. The June heat was coming on strong in Santa Clarita and it was speeding up the decay of the late Judge Johnson.

  “It stinks,” Ed complained as he walked away from the cops and flashing lights.

  “It’s hot and it smells like rot. Hell yeah it stinks,” Frank agreed as he bent down and mashed his cigarette on the sole of his boot.

  “I meant this stinks. Her being dead. Me finding her.” Ed’s words dribbled out of his mouth.

  Frank frowned and grumbled, “I found her.”

  “Speaking of, they want to talk to you,” Ed said as he pointed back to Johnson’s house. “The woman in the glasses there. Something Van. She wants to ask you a few things.”

  Frank tipped his shades upward, looking across the pavement in the direction of Ed’s finger.

  With her clipboard held tight against an over-extended hip, the leggy woman pointed at Frank, turning her hand over and motioning with her index finger, come here. Even from there he could see her cold eyes burning him down from behind her thin-framed glasses. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail leaving only the thin layer of straight-cut bangs hanging just above her penciled eyebrows. Her waist looked paper-thin from his vantage point, blurred slightly by the morning sun. Frank hadn’t had the oppor
tunity to work with the coroners, but from the looks of her, he was thinking he’d enjoy it.

  Frank lowered his glasses and tipped an imaginary hat and headed toward her as Ed returned to his truck.

  “Amy Van. Deputy medical examiner,” she announced, her hand shooting out long before he reached her.

  Frank could already smell the coconut and sandalwood radiating off her pearly white skin. It was a blessing amidst the dense rot and decay that had filled the Santa Clarita hillside. He breathed in long and loud through his nose, enjoying her scent as he grew closer to her.

  “Frank Black, PD,” he crooned, leaning forward and looking deep into her eyes from over his dark lenses.

  Taking her hand in both of his, he smiled. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Pulling from his loose grip, she sighed, sniffed at the smoky air around him with a sneer and said, “Mm-hmm. Nice to meet you, Mr. Black.”

  She slid a pen from the top of her clipboard and began asking the usual questions. Frank gave the usual answers.

  “What time did you find the body?” she asked.

  Frank replied, “Just before nine.”

  “Did you move the body?”

  Her eyes moved up and down Frank’s body, settling on the square outline of the cigarettes in his pocket. Her gaze broke and returned to his eyes as Frank answered.

  “No,” he sighed.

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes moved again to the box in his pocket. She sneered and pushed her glasses up her nose, asking, “Did you move anything?”

  “The car keys were in the ignition,” Frank explained, “I opened the driver’s side door and I used them to open the trunk. They’re still in the trunk.”

  “And Mr. Queen was with you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She jotted a few lines down on her clipboard then asked, “How do you know the victim?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “I don’t really,” he said. “Ed does.”

  She was thorough. Frank answered a dozen more yes-or-no questions before he said, “Look Doll, I do this for a living.”