Strange Brew (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 2) Page 4

  I picked it up and examined it. It was just over a foot long, four inches wide, curved on one end. When I pushed a button, the clamp opened up. “I have no idea. Curling iron?”

  The uniforms followed us in. “I know, right? Cash, weed, and that Flamingo is worth big bucks.”

  “Flamingo?” Shen took it from me.

  “Uh-huh. My dad had one. He loved his gadgets. It’s a portable record player. See, the record gets clamped in here, headphones go in the jacks,” Bookerman said. “Sony made them in the ’80s. That one might be a knock off.”

  “A Walkman for vinyl?” Shen turned it over in his hands. “What’s big bucks?”

  “My dad sold his a couple years ago on eBay for a thousand bucks,” Bookerman said.

  Shen put it back where it had lain.

  “You wanna let us in on why we’re sitting on this?” Bookerman’s partner asked. “We got called out on three burglaries in Playtown last night. Why is this so special?”

  I looked around. Indentations on the carpet told of milk crates. Lots and lots of milk crates, the indents telling me that they were stacked up high. The grids in the fibers extended to all corners of the garage room.

  “The tenant was murdered this morning,” Shen said. “CSU should be here to relieve you pretty soon.”

  “Zackery said this place was filled with records,” I pointed to the grid marks on the floor. “That would take a lot of manpower to move in a short time.”

  “Computer’s missing,” Shen noted. He moved into the bathroom. “Disgusting in here, but all the regular stuff.”

  “Let’s get out of here, let CSU dust it. We still got lots to do.”

  THE INTERVIEW WITH the landlord was brief and of little help, but the time was verified. We needed GPS information from the victim’s phone, video surveillance from Safeway, tracking down any other security cams in the area that would place our victim, and hopefully a suspect, in the area. I put in a call to Scorpio Records in San Francisco. Sketch Moses was out for the day. We put the expert on psychedelic music on the back burner.

  Our immediate concern was a time line We sketched it out. At 07:00, Vandermoot was buying records at the garage sale. From 07:09-07:10, he was texting Robert Zackery; Safeway employees heard a gunshot at 07:11 which was called in at 07:13, and at 07:15, Vandermoot’s landlord called in the burglary report.

  Shen looked it over. “Coincidence?”

  “That Vandermoot was shot at nearly the exact time his apartment was burglarized?”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Shen said. “If this really is about a record, how would anyone know that he had it in the first place? He bought it at a garage sale. The owner didn’t even know what Vandermoot bought. So it would mean that someone found out that he bought the record, tracked him down and killed him, and alerted someone else to hit his apartment, all in less than ten minutes. No freakin way, Mare.”

  “Yes freakin way, Chuck. What do the two crimes have in common?”

  “Yeah, yeah, record albums. Stolen record albums. I get that. What I don’t get, what I can’t wrap my head around, is that a horrific murder and a thorough burglary come down to stupid old vinyl LPs. You’re talking about some kind of insane coordination, not only knowing that the record was in Vandermoot’s possession, but that his residence needed to be hit hard at the exact same time. No old record is worth all that. Again, I submit: No freakin way.”

  “I second that.” Lieutenant Dan snuck up behind me. I jumped a little at the sound of his voice. “This was a murder for profit, maybe gang-related, maybe a desperate junkie.”

  I wheeled my chair toward him. “What about the burglary of the vic’s apartment? Cash wasn’t taken, or drugs. Just record albums, pounds and pounds of them, which points to the record as being the reason.”

  “Someone was casing the place,” Lt. Danielson said. “They probably already knew he went out early Sundays. When the landlord called it in, they got spooked, that’s all. Besides, that’s Burglary’s case, not yours.”

  “Loot, seriously, they snagged a bazillion, heavy cartons of records. They took his CPU. But no one bothered with untraceable cash money or marijuana? It was no ordinary B&E.”

  “That’s not up to you to decide,” Lt. Danielson said. “This is a murder for profit. Maybe random, maybe not, but that’s how you’ll pursue this. Are we clear?”

  I got the serious stink-eye from my supervisor.

  “Crystal,” I said.

  We watched Lieutenant Dan stalk away and secret himself in his office. Shen gave me an assessing look. “You’re still gonna pursue the record thing.”

  “Yep.”

  He leaned back, office chair squealing. Shen folded his hands and gazed at the ceiling. “How about this: a friend of Darren Strathmore’s, say, another nerdy collector, knows Strathmore has this valuable album. Maybe he’s tried to buy it off him before. But now, he can grab it at Mom’s garage sale for a couple bucks. He sees that Vandermoot has beaten him to the punch.”

  I wasn’t buying it. “So this rival picker follows Vandermoot, offs him in the parking lot with a shotgun, and takes his wallet, watch and the one valuable record. Then he calls a group of friends who happen to be minutes away from Vandermoot’s place in the worst part of town, and they grab the guy’s whole collection. Even though our rival picker already has the valuable item in hand.

  “The two crimes simply aren’t related,” Shen tried.

  “Why the computer? Why not the money and drugs? Those were the easiest things to grab, right? But no, they hauled out a bunch of heavy stuff. They wanted the records.”

  “Okay, kicking it back to you, why the computer at all? If all they wanted were the records, and God knows why they might, what’s a CPU worth? You can get one new for a couple-few hundred bucks.”

  “Good point,” I said, which meant I had no idea.

  Chapter 7

  The machine of Delta Vista Metro ground on. We filled out paperwork and put together a file in a black binder. On the face of it, Lt. Danielson might be right. This looked like a random, if incredibly violent, robbery-turned-murder. On Shen’s alternate theory, we had Records take a deeper look at Darren Strathmore’s associates. On the face of that, none of them appeared to be a murderous robber. It would take warrants for a deeper dig. That meant convincing a judge. We didn’t have anything more than a hunch, so we had to keep finding and working the angles.

  “It’s getting late,” Shen finally said. “We’re not gonna turn up anything more on a Sunday night.”

  I shut down my computer. “Man, something is really wrong about this one.”

  Shen nodded. “Hopefully, not purple binder wrong.”

  Purple binders got the spooky cases, the unsolvable, the paranormal. Danielson hated purple binders. The federal government, who were propping up the whole department with funding, loved purple binders. I had only seen a little bit of what went on in the shadow government department’s interest in the weird-o cases, and I didn’t like it.

  “For now, it’s just a tragic homicide in a nice part of town,” I said. “Until we dig up something otherwise. Drop me at my car?”

  We headed out. “Why is it that I’m still giving you rides?”

  “Maybe because your gift of a car gets four miles to the gallon,” I said. “Downhill.”

  It was late by the time I arrived at the rickety farmhouse on Buitre Creek, which was at the far west end of the neighborhood I grew up in, The Hammer. Though I’d lived here a while, there was still plywood on the big front windows. This place, my great-grandmother’s, was considered the local haunted house. It looked every bit the part, from the swayback roof to the lean of the walls down to the sag of the front porch steps.

  A man sat on those steps, broad-shouldered, blunt featured, and from his body language, ill-at-ease. Still, he made a fine decoration, like a sexy yard gnome. Rembrandt “Remy” Zelidon, my first attempt at seduction while I was in high school (the encounter hadn’t been all that satisfactory) was now a
pharmacist working in a family run business a few blocks away. We had reconnected since I arrived. I was hoping for something more substantial than “reconnected.”

  The problem with a future relationship was belied by his face, upturned to the nearly-full moon. Remy was a shape-shifter, and he didn’t feel in control of his inner animal. This being Delta Vista, California, shifters were pretty common. As were brujas, witches like myself, as well as ghosts and other creatures of the night. Remy eyed Babykiller as the Chrysler Cordoba squeaked, squealed and rocked to a stop. It gave a few post-ignition coughs as I got out.

  “Hey, Remy, what are you doing here?”

  He dragged his eyes from the moon. “Moving furniture. I thought.”

  “You didn’t get my text?” I pulled the phone from my pocket. The message was still there. I hadn’t pushed the send button. “Oh, dang it. Sorry.”

  Remy looked me up and down. “Where have you been?”

  “Got a call out early. It was supposed to be my day off.”

  “That guy who was shot up in the Links?” Remy asked. “I saw the mayor on the news.”

  I nodded. “It’s a bad one. Not like any of them are good. But this one...”

  He stood, looming over me a little, but tenderness glowed in his amber eyes and softened his rough features. Remy moved closer to me. I thought he might kiss me. I thought I would like that. Then his eyes bugged out and he jumped back.

  We both looked down. Ugly, the little tortoise shell cat who lived in the house, swirled around his ankles. She had oversized ears and eyes that would fit proportionally on a St. Bernard. Although a St. Bernard with cat eyes sounded super creepy. Remy clutched at his chest, panting. “I guess this house puts me on edge.” He tried to smile.

  The house put everyone on edge, including me. Ugly changed orbit, rubbing around my ankles. She made a typical cat meow. But I’d been working on communicating with her, my supposed familiar. All I got was some strange feline expletive.

  “Sorry, I didn’t expect to be out all day,” I said.

  Ugly dragged her cheek across my stretch pants hard enough to move me. “Arr,” she meowed. In my head, I heard her: starving!

  “Okay, okay.” I said to the cat; then turned to Remy. “You wanna come in? I have nothing to offer, not even a comfortable chair.”

  His eyes moved up the bowed stairs to the glowering façade of the house. “Um. Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Remy reached down and lifted a paper bag. “I brought beer. Thought we could use some if we were moving heavy stuff.”

  “Oh, hell to the yes. C’mon in, I gotta feed this creature.”

  Ugly bumped through the cat door. The human door screamed on unoiled hinges. Beyond, the living room was black. I fumbled for a switch. Card table, folding chairs, and nothing else occupied the space.

  A question formed in Remy’s eyes as he took it all in, but he was polite enough not to voice it. I found the bag of Meow Mix. Ugly’s bowl was surrounded by uneaten food. She was a messy eater, and distained food that touched the floor. Unless you scooped it back in the bowl. Then it was fair game again. Ignoring the slop, I filled the bowl with fresh kibble. Ugly dug in.

  Beer in the fridge, I led Remy upstairs. The room I slept in had a sleeping bag on the floor, and a duffle bag full of laundry for a pillow. A built-in dresser with a mirror stood in the corner. Windows were covered with newspaper, as they had been since I moved in. On the other side of the hall was an empty bedroom. The door tended to stick, so I had been in there maybe twice.

  “Attic access is in here.” I was pretty sure. When I tried the door, it didn’t budge.

  Remy studied the door frame. “The house has settled some. The jamb is out of whack.” He turned the knob, and pushed hard near the top corner. The door swung open, shuddering with its release. Inside were dusty hardwood floors, windows covered with old newspapers, and, in the ceiling, just inside the door, a long, framed section. Remy cast around the room, finally opening a closet door. From inside, he took a long pole. He extended it to a brass pull tab on the ceiling door. With a little maneuvering, he hooked the loop, twisted, and pulled down a short set of stairs. After a moment, a second set telescoped down to the floor. For a moment, he stood staring.

  “After you,” he finally said with a spokes model's hand gesture.

  Using my cell phone light, I walked into the attic. Light from small windows at the front and back cast geometric shapes. I shuddered, thinking of a nocturnal visitor with these same, black angles. I found a light switch, one of those old, twisty kind. But wan yellow lights clicked on.

  Remy crept up, only his head sticking above the trap door. His eyes wandered for a moment. “Some good stuff up here,” he said after a while, and stepped the rest of the way up.

  Near me was a tall shape covered in a sheet. I pulled it up. “Oh, cool. I always wanted a free-standing mirror.” The frame and stand were of very dark wood, the mirror an oval.

  Remy moved past me through a narrow aisle formed of furniture. “Bed frame looks serviceable, queen size I think. Mattresses are wrapped in plastic. Better than a sleeping bag on the floor.”

  “I had lots worse racks when I served,” I said. “Someone told me there was a bug problem here, so ixnay on the attress-may for now.”

  “Bug problem?”

  “I want to say it was squatters, but in reality, they were my brother’s roomies.”

  Remy smirked. “You must mean Brock. He was one wild kid. Hung out with my brother, Leo, back in the day. Whatever happened to him?”

  “He’s living in a tent beneath the overpass in Playtown,” I said. “Mom thinks he’s working on an ethnological paper about the homeless. Truth is, he’s got problems, and he’s homeless. On purpose.” I shrugged.

  He gave a sad nod. “A lot of that going around Delta Vista. Drugs, drinking, unemployment, under served mental health population. Your mom and El Profesor won’t take him in?”

  El Profesor was what the neighbor kids called my father. In actuality, he was a professor at the University of the Valley. But that’s not why they called him that. “Mom and Dad would definitely take him in. He doesn’t want to be taken in. Brock says he’s free.” I shrugged.

  “Well, the two of us can move some of this stuff. What’s the priority?”

  I glanced at the mirror. To my shock, my reflection didn’t look back. Instead, a dark-haired woman in a snug red sweater and capri pants with polka dots raised her brows at me. “Tight pants always knock ’em dead,” my great-grandmother clucked her tongue and winked before fading away.

  “Okay, not this mirror,” I said.

  We settled on some living room furniture, a couple matching aqua blue chairs, some yellow triangular end tables, a sea foam green amoeba-shaped coffee table and lamps with fat, translucent glass bases.

  “Sunday, Monday, Happy Days,” Remy said, effortlessly hauling a stuffed chair opposite another. Ugly immediately ran in and commandeered a seat.

  “Eek. Pretty dated,” I said.

  “What? Hell no, this is awesomely retro. Definitely makes the place less... espooky.” Remy plugged in a lamp. It clicked alight. “Hey. Not bad. This stuff is in great shape. No dust, no must, no fading. I wonder how long it’s all been up there?”

  I moved the card table and folding chairs, making an instant eat-in-kitchen. Winded and a little sweaty, I took out the two beers I’d stashed in the freezer. The tops didn’t twist off. Remy wandered in. With a pocket knife, he popped the tops. We clinked bottles.

  “Place looks so much better,” he said after a swig. “You could really make this a cool pad, Mary.”

  Maybe he was right. As long as the furniture was free. I still had a debt to pay, to keep my niece’s soul intact. Did that mean I had to live such a hardcore existence? “You wanna see what else is up there?”

  “You bet,” Remy smiled.

  We found an ancient canister vacuum cleaner, basically a tube on wheels with a hose at one end. I could use it to clean off the mattresses
. Covered up or not, I shivered at the thought of sleeping on a bunch of dead bug skeletons. There were bed sets for both bedrooms, frames leaning in a corner. There was an old Formica kitchen table, pale yellow to match the old fridge, with plastic-y chairs. There were a dozen mirrors. These I left covered for now. Maybe I was getting used to seeing Bisabuela Epifanía, Grammy Epi, in the silvered glass, but it might prove a shock for the uninitiated.

  “Help me move this headboard,” Remy said. “I want to see if it’ll fit in your room okay.”

  We hauled the old-school bookcase headboard to the second floor. Luckily, Remy did most of the work. Once inside the bedroom, it was obvious that it fit fine. Maybe one day, following a lot of frantic vacuuming, I would have a bed again.

  “This is weirdly fun.” Remy moved the headboard in position by my sleeping bag. “Reminds me of moving into my college dorm room.”

  It didn’t remind me of that at all...

  Chapter 8

  “Estate sale, Mary. I thought you’d died when I caught it in the paper.”

  My Jacksonville house was emptying out slowly but surely, packs of buyers and lookie-loos pawing through possessions I used to care about. Everett Klein was a good friend of mine. As of late, the private eye had been involved in a bunch of spooky cases. He eyed the crowd.

  “Where’s your cutie patootie little witch partner?” I asked.

  “Ivy?” His face fell. “Convalescing. She got shot.”

  Everett told me a little about it. The story led to one that dominated the news; a big RICO case against the Lithuanian Mob in Florida, and all up the Eastern Seaboard. “I’m not sure she’ll ever investigate again,” he finished. “It’s not like she was a professional.”

  “I thought you two had a thing going,” I said.

  He shook his head. “A little underage for me, a little out of my league.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, handsome.”