Naked Addiction (15 page)

Chapter 22

Tony

T
ony’s ass was already sore from sitting on the wooden pew and he had a headache to boot. It felt as if two cruel hands were gripping his temples and jabbing sharply every few seconds. He wished he’d brought some ibuprofen from the bottle he kept in the Mercedes’ glove compartment.

Turning around, he watched some of Tania’s high school friends whispering and giggling as they entered the church. How could they be so disrespectful? They should be silent and solemn. Where were their manners, their senses of decency? At least his teenage nephews were behaving properly. He was glad his and Helen’s relatives had come, but he was equally pleased that they were sitting back a few rows to let him and his wife grieve with some semblance of privacy.

Tommy, the cocky quarterback Tania had dated in high school, came over to offer his sympathy. He looked a lot heavier than Tony remembered. Tony did his best to be gracious, but he didn’t much feel like being polite to Tania’s old boyfriends, especially that one. He’d never liked the expression of lust in that boy’s eyes when he looked at Tania. After Tommy walked away, Tony looked down at his stomach and tried to pull up his pants, but they wouldn’t go past his protruding belly.

Well, at least I’m old enough to have one. I’ve earned it.

All the scotch he’d consumed hadn’t helped. He felt bloated and the heartburn was killing him. That was part of the reason why he hadn’t taken any ibuprofen. His stomach was upset enough already. Tony didn’t know how Helen did it night after night. Come to think of it, she’d been in the church bathroom an awfully long time. He was starting to get worried about her. He wished she would do something about her drinking. It seemed to be getting worse and worse, with no end in sight. But he knew that this was not the time to bring it up again. She’d slapped him the last time he told her she needed to get some help.

Please, God, don’t let her fall in front of everyone.

Tony hated funerals. This was the third one he’d been to in a year, but of course, this was unlike any other. There was something very wrong with outliving your only child. The first funeral was for one of his workers who’d lost his footing on a high-rise job downtown, forty stories up. Some of the guys thought he’d jumped because his wife had just left him for a truck driver. Tony had been at the site that day. It looked like the guy was flying when he swooped down from those steel beams. For months, he had a recurrent dream about the guy arching up through the air and flying off into the clouds. The dreams stopped after Tony’s liability insurance premiums went up.

Then, last fall, Tony’s mother died of cancer. When he learned she was finally gone, he felt sadness and relief. He’d put her in a fancy nursing home that cost half as much as his mortgage payment, but he couldn’t bring himself to visit her more than once every few months. He just couldn’t take more than an occasional afternoon of that smell. And he couldn’t stand to watch his mother turn into a pathetic stranger. He wanted to remember her the way she was before she got sick.

First his mother and now his daughter. Gone. He felt a tugging in his chest and his eyes welled up with tears. He closed them and hoped no one would notice.

He’d been cheated out of watching his daughter grow up. What had he done to deserve this? He kept trying to think about the good times he’d had with her, but he couldn’t seem to quell the anger he felt at God for taking her so early. What purpose could her death serve? He wanted the police to find the scumbag who’d killed her and give him the death penalty. An eye for an eye.

Since Tony had formed his own development company nine years earlier, he and Helen had been able to move to Beverly Hills, send Tania to a private high school, and buy her the dog she’d always wanted. She loved taking Lucky for runs on the wet sand in Malibu at sunset. He and Helen decided to take the photo of Tania and Lucky and make it the central focus of the collage they’d put together the night before. They’d gotten so involved in the project that they forgot to eat dinner. Drank scotch instead. By the time they’d finished, they’d left teary blotches all over the poster board.

They decided to set the collage on the easel Tania had used for her oil painting. One of Helen’s sisters set it next to Tania’s casket, only a few feet in front of the pew reserved for Helen and Tony. Helen said they shouldn’t try to remove the paint chips from the easel, because they represented a part of her—her choices, her moods. They were an expression all their own. Tony’s favorite of Tania’s paintings, a soft portrait of Lucky on the beach, hung on his office wall. 

Everything seemed to trigger a memory of her. Like when he’d called home from the store the night before to ask Helen if she needed anything. He got the answering machine, so he punched in the code to check for messages. Neither of them had erased the last one from Tania: “Just calling to say hi. Hey, did you see that beautiful sunset today? Tell Lucky I said hi, too. Bye now.”

Tania used to call when she knew they’d be out so they’d have a personal greeting waiting for them when they got home. The messages never really varied, but Helen’s mood always perked up when she heard them. Tony hadn’t realized how much he’d counted on hearing them, too. Until now.

Tony opened his eyes and wiped the wetness from his cheeks. When he was able to see clearly again, he saw the back of a young woman only a few feet in front of him. She was leaning over, looking at the collage. As she turned to the side for a moment, he recognized her profile.

It was Alison.

His heart started racing.

What is she doing there? How could she even know Tania existed when I made sure to never even mention her name?

He hadn’t wanted Alison to know he had a daughter her age. It was embarrassing. But this was something else entirely. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a somewhat more composed Helen walking towards him, wobbling a little, and watching him watch Alison. He pulled at his tie. It felt too tight around his neck. But he was determined not to lose his cool.

“Who’s that?” Helen asked a little too loudly as she sat down. She reeked of scotch.

“Shhhh,” he whispered. “Who is who?”

“That girl you were staring at,” she said, slurring her words.

“I don’t know. Must be one of Tania’s friends,” he said, patting her knee. He realized afterward that he’d patted her too hard and too fast. Helen was smart. She might figure out what was going on. But then he remembered the liquor and knew his secret was safe.

“Why were you gone for so long?” he said, hoping to deflect her attention. “I was worried.”

“I was in the bathroom, trying to pull myself together,” she said.

Tony tried not to look at Alison, but he couldn’t help it. Her cute little figure, the curly hair she could never tame, and that silky white skin. She had disappeared after that night a couple of months ago in Malibu and he’d thought he would never see her again. Now, here she was, looking at Tania’s collage. She straightened up, turned and walked quickly towards the back of the church, her face flushed and her lips pursed. He assumed that she’d recognized him from the photos, panicked and ran. He was relieved they’d both been saved a scene.

Tony turned around and saw the row of people standing against the back wall move aside to make room for Alison. She squeezed in next to a tall, handsome guy who looked like he spent a lot of time at the beach.

Tony wondered if Alison could possibly have met Tania at the Nordstrom perfume counter in the valley. It was so bizarre to see her there. It made him a little queasy. He pulled out his pocketknife and began to clean his fingernails.

Chapter 23

Goode

A
s Alison leaned against Goode during the ceremony, he felt a vibrating magnetic feeling, part sexual attraction, part something more tender. He knew it wasn’t the smartest emotion to have, but he couldn’t deny it was there. When he bent down to whisper in her ear, her hair smelled good. A soft and flowery scent, not too overbearing. Like her.

Really, the only memorial services Goode attended these days were those required by his job, but they always prompted powerful reminders of his mother’s death. Although the most painful memories had faded over time, something unexpected could trigger a fleeting but poignant surge of emotion. Like the red roses displayed artfully across Tania’s casket. But when he remembered the seagulls from Sunday morning on the bridge, he felt better again.

Alison, tugging at his sleeve, brought him back. The service was over and it was time to go. Other than Paul Walters, no one had really raised his suspicions. Paul had left the church rather suddenly, his face streaked with tears and his skin the color of dried milk. Goode couldn’t see how Paul could have any connection to the beauty school or the escort service, but his eyes showed that he was a druggie. He wondered if he, too, had a Pumphouse connection.

The crowd filed out of the church and into the sun like lemmings. Goode felt his irritation level rise as one person elbowed him in the side and another stepped on the back of his shoe. After whispering good-bye to Alison, he stepped away to call Maureen on his cell phone again. Still no answer. Where the hell could she have disappeared to? He’d blame himself if she turned up dead. He struggled to think of innocent possibilities. She’d seemed sort of sullen lately. Maybe she’d gone to Baja California for a change of scenery. Maybe she was staying with that girlfriend of hers in San Francisco. Or maybe she was at home. An image of her lying dead in a bathtub full of red water flashed across his mind. He shook his head to push it away.

He called Stone to see if he had any updates on Maureen, or anything else for that matter.

“Well, like you said, she wasn’t home. But I heard from the beat cop about one of her roommates—some shaggy guy with hair down his back and a serious attitude. Asleep in the middle of the day. Didn’t even know what time it was.”

“Did they ask him where she was? Did they search the house?”

“No, they didn’t search the house. There was no probable cause. They asked him where she was—said you wanted to know—but Shaggy had no clue. Said he wouldn’t tell the cops if he did. Real cooperative. I wouldn’t let her go back there if I were you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re assuming that she listens to me, chief. Thanks for sending those guys over there anyways.”

“Sure. No problem. Turn up anything at the service?”

Goode told him about his new Paul Walters angle and said he was going to try to needle Keith a bit on the drive home about that and other things.

Goode strolled over to Seth and Keith, who were standing on the lawn talking to a couple of attractive young women. The detective stood behind a tree while he watched them exchange business cards with the women, waiting for the girls to leave before he approached.

“Nice ceremony, don’t you think?” he asked no one in particular.

Seth gave Goode an uncomfortable smile and Keith nodded, sticking close to Seth like steel to a magnet. Hoping to get away from Goode, by the looks of it. They were an odd pair. Keith was obviously the weak link. Goode hoped he could push Keith to slip up and lead Goode to a possible motive, a link to the beauty school, drugs, the escort service, or Paul. Anything.

“Which one of you drove?” Goode asked.

“I did,” Seth said.

Keith chirped. It was like a hiccup, only louder.

“Good,” the detective said, looking directly into Keith’s eyes without blinking, an intimidation tactic that usually proved effective. “Keith, why don’t you ride back to San Diego with me?”

“Um, okay,” Keith said, dumbfounded. He glanced over at Seth, whose mouth was set in a grim straight line. Keith chirped again.

“Let’s go,” Goode said. He motioned for Keith to walk in front of him, then fell in beside him.

Goode could feel Seth’s eyes drilling into his back. He turned and saw him standing there, his arms folded across his chest, watching them walk away. When Goode looked again a few minutes later, Seth was climbing into his Porsche down the street.

Goode hated driving in LA. People were so rude. You could count on three cars to turn left after every yellow light turned red. It was an unwritten rule. He purposely waited until he’d been driving for fifteen minutes on the 405 freeway before he broached his first question. He wanted Keith to sweat a little.

The silence hung heavily in the car like LA smog hugging the horizon on a hot day.

“Keith, are you aware that if Seth did commit murder, and you had anything to do with it, that you could be looking at prison time for being an accomplice? Same thing if you tried to help him cover it up, which would make you an accessory after the fact.”

Keith’s shoulders drooped and he bowed his head, staring at the floor. He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

“So?” Goode said, waiting.

When Keith finally faced him, Goode could see fear in his eyes. “What do you want me to say?” Keith asked.

“I get the feeling that you’re not telling me everything you know,” Goode said. “Are you trying to protect Seth?”

“No,” he said. “And I don’t need to. You don’t know Seth like I do. He would never kill anyone. . .The only thing he needs protection from is this incredibly jealous woman he used to go out with, ‘cause he always did more coke when she was around. He always lets the little head think for the big head, if you know what I mean.”

Keith looked at Goode as if he would understand. It was hard, but Goode managed not to laugh, and focused on the road so Keith would keep talking. If Goode got lucky, Keith would give him enough information to charge Seth with a crime before they reached Irvine.

“She did a lot of blow—you know, cocaine. For all I know, she was dealing it, too. He used to do it with her at Pumphouse, but I finally got him to stop. I didn’t want him to get busted. He finally got a clue and blew her off. Anyway, she was at Pumphouse the night he met Tania.”

“Who is this jealous woman we’re talking about?”

“Her name is Clover.”

“So, what are you saying? That I should pick her up for dealing drugs?”

This time, Keith answered a little too quickly. “No, I mean, I don’t know if she’s a dealer, but she’s definitely got a personal habit.”

Goode wondered who Keith was truly trying to protect. So what if Clover had a coke problem? Keith had offered him a possible source for the drugs on Tania’s table, but something didn’t ring true about his story. Why would he volunteer all this information about Seth doing drugs and his relationship with Clover? Maybe he was trying to distract Goode or throw him off the trail of something more important. And where had the meth come from? Most users picked either coke or meth and stuck with their drug of choice.

“Is Seth selling drugs at Pumphouse? Or are you?”

“No, man, I told you. Recreational use only,” Keith said. “Shit, you’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

“I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now, pal. . .So, what about Saturday night?” Goode asked. “Where were you between nine and ten thirty P.M.?”

“We already told you—at Pumphouse with Seth, waiting for the chicks to show up, and then we went to that party. You can ask the bartender, man, he knows us. Or ask Richard, the guy who threw the party.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, we will,” Goode said.

Goode drove on for a while, letting Jason Mraz sing and the conversation sink in. He finally turned down the stereo where Interstate 405 merged with the 5. They’d passed Irvine and Goode still didn’t have enough to arrest anybody for anything. But they were still an hour away from home. Keith looked uncomfortable, claustrophobic even, as he shifted around in his seat.  “Does the name Sharona Glass ring a bell?” Goode asked.

“Yeah, she’s Clover’s friend. Why?” Keith sounded sincere.

“She’s dead, too,” Goode said.

“Whaat?” Keith said, his mouth hanging open. “How?”

“Strangled.”

“Shit. This is getting weird.”

“That’s one word for it,” Goode said. “Do you know Paul Walters?”

“Who?” Keith asked, frowning.

“Paul Walters. He was Tania’s next-door neighbor.”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Just doing my job, pal.”

Keith kept pulling the seat belt away from his neck, as if it were too constrictive, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Goode sped up to pass a Buick that was going way too slow. Left him in the dust.

“Tell me more about Clover,” Goode said.

“I don’t know. She goes to some beauty school during the day and gets blasted at Pumphouse most nights.”

Goode pulled a pen and a notebook from his inside coat pocket, rested the pad on the steering wheel, and wrote her name under Paul’s, with the notation, “Jealousy?” He swerved wildly to avoid a blue vintage Corvette that shot in front of him, sending the pen onto the floor at Keith’s feet.

“Shit,” Goode exclaimed. You have to keep your eyes on the road at all times when driving in Southern California. Or you’ll end up dead.

“Asshole,” Keith said to the Corvette driver for Goode’s benefit. He reached down and handed the pen to Goode. “She’s a pain in the ass, you know, neurotic as hell. I don’t know why Seth kept seeing her, apart from the obvious.”

“You know Tania Marcus went to that beauty school, right?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “She was talking about it that night we all met. Hey, maybe Clover knew Tania from there.”

Or maybe she knew Maureen. “What about a woman named Maureen? You know her from around PB at all?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Keith answered a little too quickly. “Why?”

“Just wondering if you knew her.”

“That’s right,” Keith said, turning to Goode with a trace of a smirk. “You guys have the same last name. She your wife?”

That threw him. No one had put Goode and that word in the same sentence for quite some time. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, she’s my sister, smart ass. So?”

“We went out a couple times.”

Keith wasn’t a good liar. Goode figured it was more intimate than that, but this guy didn’t seem like his sister’s type. He seemed like a decent guy, but as he kept reminding himself, everyone was a suspect at this point. Goode decided to drive the rest of the way and let Jason Mraz do the talking.