“Lots of people got ripped off back then,” Alice pointed out. “If people got shot out here for stealing material, Hollywood would have a population of maybe ten or twenty people.”
Mary nodded and looked at the stage. “Speaking of material,” she said.
They all looked at Kurt Cooper on stage.
“I think his stuff is safe,” Alice said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary watched Jake take a drink from his beer. God, he looked so handsome. And he’d been so good helping her recover from the gunshot to her leg. Luckily, there’d been no nerve damage. But Jake had jumped right in to help, buying her groceries, cooking for her, visiting Alice, too.
Now, Jake turned and saw her looking at him.
“What?” he said.
She reached across and held his hand. Squeezed it gently.
“Jake. I…”
He waited. “You what?”
“I…” she said.
He leaned toward her, as if she were going to whisper.
She started to say something, then stopped.
Instead, Mary pulled Jake to her and kissed him.
THE END
Murder With Sarcastic Intent
(Mary Cooper Mystery #2)
by
Dan Ames
What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time,
which may well make sarcasm the condition of truth.”
Prologue
She awoke in darkness.
And pain.
Her head felt like it had been split open. Her neck throbbed, her jaws ached. The blindfold pressed into her eyes. She gagged on the cloth that was jammed into her mouth. With her hands tied behind her back, she sat on a cold floor leaning against a wall. Her butt was numb, and her legs ached with cramps.
She closed her eyes. How long had it been? She remembered her bed, a vague dream about dancing with a movie star, a man in black crashing into her room, an incredible weight on her chest, and a horrible, chemical smell burning her nose.
Her bladder throbbed.
She needed to go to the bathroom.
The tears came — they felt hot on her face. She had been crying off and on for hours. Each time her blindfold dried, she cried again, turning it soggy.
Her nose dripped and pooled on her upper lip in a depression caused by the binding of the gag.
The same thought kept popping into her head, try as she might to stop herself from asking it over and over again.
What were they going to do to her?
The unknown answer caused her heart to hammer in her chest. A beating? Rape? Murder?
She leaned back and pushed against the wall, struggled to use her legs for leverage to stand up. She started to slide to her left, caught herself, and slowly pushed upwards. It took all of her effort, the muscles in her thighs burned.
But she made it all the way up.
She stood, feeling dizzy and shaky.
And then from what seemed less than five feet away, she heard a sound that made her freeze.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
1
One
Mary Cooper spread her hand across the manila envelope on the desk. She eyed the woman sitting opposite her.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I have to tell you your husband is sleeping with his surfing instructor,” Mary said.
Mrs. Randolph Jenkins III raised her head, as if she wanted the next punch to land right on her chin. She was a regal woman, with an elegant face and small lips.
“I am not surprised,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Betrayed, yes. Surprised, no.”
Mary said, “I have photographic evidence if you are interested.” Indeed, the photos were some of Mary’s finest work. She’d spent hours climbing the bluff behind the surf instructor’s home to get into range for the zoom lens.
The woman stared at a distant spot somewhere outside the window, into the haze of a Los Angeles morning.
“Yes, I believe I would like to see the evidence,” she said, her voice dry and crisp, like the twenty one-hundred-dollar bills she’d paid Mary a week ago.
The sigh that nearly escaped Mary’s lips was stifled before it could make any noise. They always wanted to see the pictures, she thought. Always, always, always. Salt in the wound.
Mary slid a finger beneath the envelope’s clasp, popped it open, and pulled out the stack of eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossies.
She turned the photos toward the woman. The first image, Mary knew, was of Mr. Randolph Jenkins III straddling his male surf instructor’s very large erection.
“He does like the longboard,” Mary said. She immediately cursed herself. Dammit! She was really working on her customer service skills and that comment was the exact opposite of the behavior she needed to exhibit.
Mrs. Randolph Jenkins III flipped through the rest of the photos before pushing them back toward Mary.
“I had no idea,” she said.
Mary suspected otherwise, but bit her tongue.
“Well, your husband was good at hiding the truth,” Mary said, and then, before she could stop herself, added “along with the salami.”
Shit! Another one!
What good was holding your tongue, if when you unleashed it, the damn thing had a mind of its own?
The older woman blanched at the comment.
“Your private investigator skills are clearly well-developed,” the woman said. “More so than your tact.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to — ”
The woman held up her hand. Then she scratched out a check and handed it to Mary.
The older woman picked up the stack of photographs, slid them back into the envelope, and put it into her purse.
“Your notes and case details will be available should you be called to appear in court, am I correct?” she said.
Mary nodded. “Absolutely.”
The woman went to the door.
“We’ll really nail him in court,” Mary said. “Totally bend him over.”
As soon as the words passed her lips, Mary winced and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the woman was gone. . along with any shot at a referral, Mary noted with confidence.
2
Two
“Goddammit, where’s that new fucking PA?”
LAPD Homicide Detective Jacob Cornell dropped the stack of apple crates he was carrying and hurried toward the director. In film production, “PA” stood for Production Assistant — the lowest of the low, but perhaps the most essential workers on a film crew. They were glorified gophers.
“Right here!” Jake called out.
“Quit standing around with your thumb up your ass and bring me the lens case,” the director said. His name was Morrison. “NOW!” he added.
Morrison — just the one name of course — was one of the top pornography directors in Los Angeles, and he was a little guy. He had short, stunted legs, with a muscular upper body and a big, blocky, square head. Jake thought he probably had a touch of dwarfism, combined with plenty of weightlifter’s steroids. And he had a personality to match: sort of a Napoleonic Complex with a side of ‘Roid Rage.
“Motherfucker, hurry up!” Morrison yelled.
“Little shit,” Jake mumbled under his breath. He had hated the idea of going undercover on a porn film crew, but he had been temporarily assigned to Vice, and as the new guy, he’d gotten the short straw.