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  “Hey there, stranger,” a husky, breathless voice called out from above.

  Frank looked up to see the owner of the sultry voice and dainty hand. Standing over him was a sexy, slender librarian with dark brown hair and legs that went on for days. Her blouse was unbuttoned, revealing the swollen curves of her milky breasts, her nipples barely covered by the thin, white fabric. Small, horn-rimmed glasses were perched on her tiny nose and a copy of Catcher in the Rye gripped in her hand. You could just barely taste the lavender of her perfume over the salty flowers and spilled beer of the club. She planted her stiletto on the seat beside Frank and spread her knees, showing him the thin sheet of red lace deep between her thighs.

  “Nice, Doll,” Frank said as he looked her up and down.

  She leaned forward, smiling and arching her back as she swung her shoulders from side to side, giving him a better view of the mountains beneath her blouse.

  “Care for some company?” she cooed.

  Frank tapped the book in his pocket as he considered the work to be done. Then, without much of a pause, he turned his phone face down on the table.

  “I’d love some, Rose,” he declared, wrapping his palm around his glass, taking a swig and scooting to make room for her.

  Of all the girls at Eazy’s, Rose was definitely his favorite. She always had been, ever since he started watching over this place. She was his backup. What he couldn't do—or wouldn't do—she would.

  She sat close, crossing her long, creamy thigh over his wrinkled black slacks.

  “How are things, Frank?” she asked as she ran her nails along his neck. “You look troubled. Been a long day?”

  “It has,” he said, brushing her hand away.

  He looked at her and smiled, “How’s business outside the club?”

  She threw him a pout and answered, “Business is business, honey.” Tipping her glasses to inspect Frank, she asked, “How about you? Where’ve you been?”

  Frank flipped over his phone so he could see the face, Johnson’s body prominent on the screen.

  “Here and there,” he replied.

  She traced her fingers over his chest, saying, “I see you’re wearing that vest again under there.” She flicked her nail against the hard Kevlar.

  “Always,” Frank declared. “It’s L.A. Everyone should wear a vest.” He gulped the last inch from his glass and said, “You know, I’m going to need some more filing done at the apartment if you’re interested.”

  He raised his hand to signal Ted, but Rose pushed it down.

  “Let me get you another,” she said.

  She stood and dipped between the sloppy patrons at the bar. Within a few breaths, Rose appeared with another highball and handed it to Frank, returning to her seat half on his lap.

  Taking another sip, Frank realized he was seeing two of her. The glass slipped from his fingers, spilling across the table with a clink. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

  “Are you okay, Hon?” Rose asked.

  “It’s a heavy pour tonight.”

  He felt the words fall out like sludge. His tongue felt gritty in his mouth and his teeth sticky against his lips. The room started to spin. He felt his stomach wrench inside his gut.

  “I gotta.”

  That’s all Frank managed to say as he pushed past her and to the bathroom. The walls collapsed inward as he stumbled down the tight hall and through the drunk crowd. Pushing through the men's room door, everything went black.

  ***

  Frank woke up on the floor with a splitting headache. The light coming in through the mini-blinds sliced into his retinas like razor blades. He cringed as he struggled to his feet. Pushing himself upward with the end table as a crutch, he finally got himself upright. He rubbed his temples as he shuffled toward the fridge.

  Groaning, Frank leaned into the refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer. Popping the top, he gulped it down.

  He let out a refreshed sigh and said to no one, “That’s better.”

  Standing in the kitchen corner of his studio apartment, Frank noticed the manila folders scattered at his feet. He looked around the room, realizing that his whole apartment had been destroyed, ransacked. Stacks of papers were knocked into piles, dresser drawers and desk drawers pulled onto the floor, the couch cushions ripped up and tossed about. Hell, the only thing left untouched was the fridge.

  Frank didn’t move. He sipped his beer and took it all in.

  Then his eyes widened as he patted his pockets. His frantic hands moved up and down until they settled on the square outline of the day-planner resting in his pants pocket.

  The front door burst open and Ed came tumbling into the room.

  “I just can’t shake something she said at the gym,” he rattled before making eye contact.

  Then he saw the mess. He stopped in his tracks.

  “What the hell happened, Frank?”

  Frank continued nursing his beer as he looked around the room. Then, focusing on Ed, Frank shrugged.

  “No clue,” he said. Finishing the can, he tossed it on the ground. “Room’s a mess anyway,” he growled as he tossed some cushions on the couch and took a seat. “Sit down, Ed.”

  Ed sat down. It was obvious he was rattled.

  “The last time I saw her, she said someone had followed her that morning. To the gym. I completely dismissed her, Frank. That makes me a horrible person. It’s my fault.”

  He longed for a hug that Frank would never give.

  “You didn’t kill her, did you, Ed? Then, it’s no fault of yours,” Frank said as he took out a smoke and lit it, inhaling deep.

  Exhaling, he said in a hiss, “Some people are fucked.”

  That was all the consolation Frank had in him. His brain was screaming. A beer and a cigarette usually took care of a hangover, but this time it didn’t.

  “That’s horrible, Frank,” Ed cried out.

  “Did you tell the M.E. she was being followed?”

  Frank moved his hand to the pocket with Johnson’s day-planner in it, cupping the book with his palm.

  “Didn’t think of it then. Thinking of it now though. Can’t shake it. Look, I tell you what. You follow up, help me clear my head about this whole mess, and I’ll waive your rent this month.”

  Frank was already planning on seeing this through to the end, but he didn’t tell Ed that.

  “Sounds like a deal,” Frank said as he pulled the day-planner from his pocket and flipped it open.

  He smiled with his cigarette pinched in his teeth.

  “What’s that there?” Ed asked, leaning closer to the book in Frank’s hands.

  Frank turned the book around, showing Ed the words that declared it to be Judge Johnson’s day-planner.

  Ed smirked and said, “You sly dog..” He paused, then scratched his bristly hair, saying, “Wait a minute—”

  Frank interrupted, saying, “You already said, free month's rent.” He pulled the book back and snapped it shut. “The whole month.”

  Ed grumbled something about flim-flam. Then, deciding to stick with his promise, he motioned for Frank to open the book.

  “Let’s take a look,” Ed said.

  Frank put the book between them on the table, allowing each to see the blocks of calendar dates filled with appointments and schedules.

  “When was the last time you all saw her?” Frank asked, thumbing his way toward May, “We’ll start there.”

  Ed’s eyes searched his memory banks as he said, “I want to say May first.”

  “Yeah. May first,” he affirmed.

  “Here we go,” Frank announced as he found the first of May.

  The creases around Ed’s eyes deepened as he squinted, straining to see the small print on the page.

  “Lucky for us she was OCD with this thing,” Frank said, pointing to the check marks beside each appointment.

  “Here it comes,” Frank gasped as he jumped to his feet, grabbing his crotch. “Excuse me.”

  He pushed past Ed toward the ba
throom, stepping over strewn case files and piles of what looked like garbage but he knew to be his things.

  After a few long minutes, Frank emerged with a capped container of yellow liquid in place of the cigarette in his hand.

  He shook it back and forth at Ed as he looked around the apartment, saying, “I think I was drugged last night.”

  Frank dipped across the room and placed the container in his fridge amongst the cans of beer.

  He moved around the room, picking through piles as he said, “Looks like your gym was the last appointment she never checked off.”

  He found his sunglasses on the counter and put them on. Then he crouched down, lifting a black two-button wool jacket off the floor and shaking it out like a rug. He slipped his hands in the arm-holes and shrugged it over his shoulders.

  “Since you know she was there May first, I’ll start there,” he said as he faced the crooked mirror on the wall.

  Flattening his lapels, he dipped his shades and inspected himself. Content with the wrinkles, Frank turned toward the front door.

  He swiped his car-keys off the hook and said, “I’m heading out.”

  Ed stood, following Frank out the door.

  As they started down the stairwell, Frank turned and said, “This time it’s just me.”

  Ed nodded. He was glad to stay home.

  Frank leapt down the steps. He made his way through the courtyard and across the black pavement of the parking lot. Brandishing his keys, he approached his yellow Ambassador. He unlocked the door and hopped into the brown leather bucket seat. As he placed the key in the ignition, he noticed the small note wedged beneath his wiper blade.

  Kisses love Rose, it read, facing down through the windshield. He rolled down the window and reached out, picking the note in his fingers. Unfolding it, he read:

  Hey hon,

  You blacked out at the bar so I drove your car home. Don’t worry, took my usual from your wallet. B back tomorrow to file. Thank the girls for carrying your ass.

  Kisses love Rose

  Frank pulled out his wallet and saw the twenties missing. He chuckled as he took out a cigarette and lit it. Starting up the car, Frank tossed the note on the floor and revved the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, over the bumpy cobblestones and onto Moorpark Avenue.

  Chapter 6

  A bell chimed as Frank walked through the plate-glass door. The lobby of Fitness Finesse looked like an upscale dentist’s office complete with fake plants peppered along the walls and smooth jazz playing over the speakers. In the corner sat a large, black leather couch and loveseat combo beside a wrought-iron, glass-topped coffee table adorned with fitness magazines. Above, fuzzy fluorescent squares shone, illuminating the gray industrial carpet below. The smell of stale sweat and salted pork permeated the room, wafting up from the carpet and dominating the futile attempts of the auto-air freshener in the corner.

  Frank took notice of the small black domes in the ceiling as he walked up to the half-circle in the center of the room.

  A man sat behind the desk with a fitness mag in hand. The full-sized magazine looked like a small digest crimped between his giant fingers. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing the tribal bands tattooed on his upper arms and his broad shoulders covered in patches of angry acne and black, curly hair. Clearly, a fan of steroids.

  Frank cleared his throat and said, “Nice music.”

  The magazine lowered.

  “Bill, right?” Frank half-inquired, knowing full well this was Bill. Frank had met him once at a barbecue Ed had hosted in the Pinemoor's courtyard.

  Bill shoved the magazine into a drawer in the desk.

  “Are you interested in a tour of the gym or a membership?” Bill asked as he came around the desk brandishing a clipboard.

  Looking Frank over, Bill started checking boxes on the paper in his hand.

  After a moment of scrutiny, Bill said, “It’s going to take some work to get you into shape.”

  He poked at Frank’s stomach. Not knowing it was two inches of Kevlar that filled out Frank's waistline, he said, “That right there, that’s got to—”

  “I’m not here for an evaluation of my lifestyle choices,” Frank interrupted.

  Flashing his wallet, Frank declared, “Frank Black, PD.”

  There was no badge, but Frank knew he didn’t need one. Few asked twice. He had learned there was something about that motion that people found authoritative. Probably influenced by years of watching cop shows, average folks submit their rights at the flip of a wallet, with or without the badge.

  Bill tossed the clipboard on the table and said, “Oh.”

  He looked Frank over once more and said, “What can I do you for, officer?”

  “I want to ask you about Mary-Beth Johnson.” Frank said, holding his cell phone out to Bill.

  On the screen of Frank’s phone was a close-up of Johnson’s plastic-wrapped face.

  “Oh my God,” Bill cried out, covering his mouth with a cringe.

  “Why the hell would you show me that?” he bellowed, pushing the phone out of his sight.

  Frank pocketed the phone as Bill started to cry.

  Frank looked sideways at the tearstained cheeks of the burly muscleman weeping in front of him.

  “I know it’s not easy to see,” Frank said with a bit of confusion. “Reactions are important in weeding out suspects.”

  Bill sniffled and sobbed and whimpered, holding his hand out in an ineffective attempt to hide himself from Frank. Each time Bill grew quiet and his hand started to lower, Frank would move his mouth to ask a question and Bill would start back into his whimpering.

  After a few long minutes of uncomfortable whining, Bill began to compose himself.

  Frank stated, “I found her like this yesterday morning. I’d like to know who did this to her.”

  Deep breaths interrupted each syllable as Bill asked, “How could someone do that to that poor—”

  Interrupting himself, he let out a another burst of tears and wailed, “She was nothing but nice!”

  Bill’s bicep flexed, the veins bulging under his tribal ink as he reached for the box of tissues on the desk. Bill apologized as he wiped his face clean of the snot and tears.

  “Please excuse me. I’m just going through some shit. I’ll help in any way I can,” he said.

  Frank nodded, saying, “Mm-hmm, I see,” then asked, “When was the last time you saw Ms. Johnson?”

  Bill started to sob again.

  Frank rolled his eyes and tried to contain the sigh that escaped his lips.

  “I have a few other people I need to speak with,” Frank said. “You take your time.”

  Frank moved to the door on the back wall and asked, “I can go back here? That’s not a problem?”

  Bill held himself against the desk, his back swelling up and down under his loose tank. He raised his hand without looking at Frank and said, “Yeah, man. That’s fine.”

  “I’ll be back,” Frank said as he disappeared behind the swinging door.

  Frank weaved through the rows of exercise bikes, reaching the back wall of mirrors and dumb bells. There, with a curl bar gripped in his hands, stood a thin, Hispanic boy wearing black spandex bike shorts with a yellow and blue striped polo that sat too high on his waist and fit too tight in the shoulders. He watched himself in the mirror as he brought the weights up to his chest and then back down, letting out a strained breath with each rep. Frank leaned against the mirror and waited for the boy to finish.

  The boy dropped the bar and turned his attention toward Frank.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about last month,” Frank said as he handed the boy a towel.

  Wiping his face, the boy said, “These have to do with Mary-Beth?”

  Frank nodded.

  “It does,” he said.

  “You gonna catch that hijo de puta asesino?” the boy snarled, tossing the rag on the bench behind him.

  Frank narrowed his eyes at the boy.
r />   “You Ed’s friend, no? Cheryl told us you find her body,” the boy confessed as he raised his arms in a T and started his squats.

  Hunkering down, pressing his butt to his haunches and standing back up, the boy let out a deep breath, then repeated.

  Frank pulled out his phone.

  Looking down at the boy, he asked, “Your name?”

  “Pedro Rodas,” the boy squawked in between breaths.

  Frank typed it into his phone.

  “When was the last time you saw Mary-Beth?” he asked.

  “Round da begeening last month.”

  “And how do you know Mary-Beth?”

  “N’ombre. Not really. No la conozco verdad. Other than out front most mornings,” Pedro said as he pointed his index finger, poking the air over his shoulder. “Nunca hablamos. We never talked.”

  “And the exact date you last saw her?”

  Pedro shrugged his shoulders and pointed toward the women’s restroom, saying, “Look man, hable con Rhonda—si quieres exact dates.”

  “Thanks,” Frank mumbled, turning away.

  Standing with his head poking through the doorway, Frank called into the women’s room.

  “Ladies of the locker room, this is Frank Black, PD. I need to speak with Rhonda. Can someone send her out?”

  It wasn’t a moment before a towering redhead came parading out of the restroom.

  “I’m Rhonda,” she introduced in a husky voice, holding her large man-hand out toward Frank. Frank took her hand in his, meeting her forceful squeeze.

  “I need to know when you last saw Mary-Beth Johnson. Pedro there says you’re the one I need to speak with.”

  Before Rhonda could rebuttal, a slender girl with glasses and auburn hair popped out of the restroom.

  “Are you guys talking about Mary-Beth?” the woman interjected.

  Without waiting for an answer, the woman blathered, “You know she said she was being followed. Said she didn’t feel safe here anymore. She said she thought someone was watching her in the showers.”

  She looked Frank in the eyes and declared, “I would’ve stopped coming here too. I thought that’s all it was. I thought she stopped coming. I thought you and Ed would find her at home watching Court TV or out getting her nails done. I didn’t think…oh my God, I didn’t think...”