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Wanna read the latest
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Into the Thick of It A mystery novella |
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Danny,
manager of Brian’s Fish House in Seal Beach, sat down and leaned his
head on the paneled wall of his office. "No,
they hadn't eaten in here. They
told me that much. I never
saw them in here either, although you probably know on Saturday night,
we're real busy." Danny
fiddled with doodles on his scratchpad, listening to what Sergeant Adams
was asking. “No,
I don’t even have the name of the couple, they didn’t want to stick
around. All they said was
they were walking on the beach, and some dogs were barking at something
in this seaweed, pushed up against the seawall, near the street. He walked up to it and saw a woman’s body.
They saw a dark car, a big fancy car of some kind, pulling away.
Said it might have been a Mercedes.
That’s about it.” Chapter One ~ It
was Sunday morning and the coffee was flowing at Starbucks on Wilshire
Boulevard near Rampart Street. “Good
morning Mr. Slatts. Nice
day ahead, huh?” Folding
the Sunday Times in half, he said,
“Hi there Nancy. Why
don't you call me Morgan? After
all, I’ve been coming here every Sunday for over a year now.” “I
know, just like clockwork. How’s
it going at the museum?” “Very
well, thank you.” Why did
he lie? He hated the job
and had tried for several years to figure a way out of it.
In the past two years he'd asked for an increase in pay, but had
been turned down. There had
been a hiring freeze at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art for months
and no changes were being made in salaries, period.
The boredom of the job ate away at him, more so in the last year
than ever before. To make
polite conversation, he asked her, “Have you seen the latest exhibit?” “No,
I don’t have much time. I’m
always working.” “Well,
some afternoon take a walk over. You
shouldn’t miss the Van Gogh Exhibit.” She
poured fresh, steaming, fragrant coffee into his cup. “I’ll try, really I will.
What do you do over there anyway?” “Administration.
Totally boring, nothing exciting.
Lots of paperwork, politics, budgets.
Really a drag.” This
job was not his fulfillment as far as a career went, not at all what he’d
envisioned back in his twenties. Those
dreams went away when his graduation from college was cut short.
When his father died in his junior year, he had to go to work to
help his mother. All those
years his dad drank didn’t leave much for his mother to fall back on,
and he felt an obligation to help her. He moved in with her and went immediately to work as a
bookkeeper for an insurance firm. Over
the years, he’d moved up to the job with the Museum, but it bored him
intensely. “Couldn’t
be all that bad, is it?” Really
not expecting an answer, she glanced at the crowd standing at the
counter, ordering coffees in every flavor and type imaginable.
"I’ve got to get busy.
Enjoy your Sunday, Morgan.” “You
too, Nancy.” This
was the bland, business side of Morgan Slatts.
There was another side, but that would remain secretive.
She
walked away and he quickly unfolded the paper.
Scanning through it, urgently searching for something in
particular to read, his eyes focused on a small article.
Bringing the paper closer, he tilted his head to read clearly
through his bifocals:
BODY FOUND IN SEAWEED PILE AT MANHATTAN BEACH
Late
Saturday night, police removed the body of a woman found on the beach by
an unidentified couple walking near Brian’s Fish House Restaurant in
Seal Beach.
Detective
Mark O’Hare spoke to reporters. The
body is female, blonde, approximately thirty years old.
She was dressed in black slacks and blue shirt.
As of now we have not determined the cause of death.
The body was found in a pile of seaweed and appeared to have been
placed there.
There were some signs of a struggle as well as what may be tar
under her nails.
A
wave of panic began to sweep over him as he sipped the steaming brew.
All this mess had begun last January, when he was at a New Year’s
celebration at his attorney’s house.
Brian McKee had invited many of his clientele including an
impressive group of employees from the La Brea Tar Pits as well as the
prestigious Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
Together, the crowd had mingled easily, enjoying cocktails and
eating light food served on silver platters offered by caterers. Morgan
remembered when he first met Darlene at that gathering.
Brian had introduced them. “Morgan,
meet one of La Brea’s prized researchers, Darlene McLeod."
He recalled how she had reached her hand to Morgan’s in a soft,
feminine handshake. He was
immediately attracted to her and even now could envision her in a that
sexy red dress, her blonde hair very complimentary done in a short cut.
Her smile was dazzling. “I’ve
heard about your work at the Pits.
Besides, aren't you on the Board with LACMA? “Really?
How did you happen to get interested in such a thing?
Sounds intriguing." “It
began years ago when I was in college working on my Ph.D.
While I was at Stanford I had an opportunity to travel to Turkey.
I found that part of the world absolutely fascinating and I’ve
never really gotten over it.” “Tell
me more," he said, his curiosity piqued. “I’ve
discovered that..” she paused. “
Now you’re not going to believe this, but...” “What?”
Morgan interrupted. She
leaned close to Morgan and said, very quietly, “There are such people
who raid those ancient tombs, steal artifacts, and then sell them.
It’s actually a major underground operation.
In fact, sometimes even museums pay people to obtain these
artifacts.” She raised
one eyebrow as if to accent what she’d implied, then brought her glass
of wine to her lips and sipped it while not taking her eyes from Morgan’s.
Whether
she'd had too much to drink or not, that did it; Morgan was fascinated
with Darlene McLeod. Not
only was her intelligence very apparent, after all she’d gotten her
Ph.D. from Stanford, but her looks were exceptional.
He
had dated a few women over the years, after his mother died, and married
once, briefly. After that
failure he never got serious with another woman, at least not enough to
ever marry again. There was
something about Darlene that was different, and he intended to find out
what that was. "More
coffee, Morgan?" His
reverie was broken. "Oh,
no thanks. I'm headed
home." Morgan
folded the paper in half, then quarters, and gulped the last of his
coffee. Without
thinking, he turned his palms up and quickly looked at the underside of
his fingernails. Then,
staring straight ahead, he thought about the article.
He reached into his pocket for an antacid tablet, left a tip on
the table, and walked back to his apartment. The La Brea Apartments had been home for Morgan Slatts for five years. When he got the job at LACMA, he searched and searched for something not too far away from his office. He wanted to be able to walk to work, get a cup of coffee on the way, and have a nice view from his apartment. The La Brea met all those demands and besides that, the tenants seemed pleasant and quiet. One of his favorite past-times was playing music from his extensive opera collection while sitting quietly on his terrace reading books on history. His
thoughts still concentrating on the newspaper article, he barely noticed
the babbling of the Spanish style fountain in the center of the
courtyard. He walked
quickly through the courtyard, then ducked under the palm near the
entryway to the main building. As
he approached the elevator he saw what appeared to be a notice stuck on
the door with tape: ELEVATOR TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER. He
usually didn't walk up the stairs, but now he had no choice.
Puffing breaths, he realized he needed to be in better shape.
The newspaper article at the forefront of his mind, his hand
trembled as he unlocked his door. The
brightness of the hot July sun streamed in through the wall of glass and
he stepped outside on his terrace to collect his thoughts.
He leaned on the wood railing and purveyed the view below.
There was the grassy area to the West, a view he'd come to love,
adjoining the famed La Brea Tar Pits.
A few strollers made their way through the park, while others
rested on benches, barely visible under the enormous old trees. Morgan
leaned one way and then another to see a small group entering one of the
small researcher shacks in the park.
Glass viewing windows in these little shacks allowed the public
to watch anthropologists scour various bones still bubbling to the
surface of the tar. Inside,
through enormous glass windows, more scientists worked feverishly
unraveling the mystery of the ancient bones.
He thought about all the times he'd wandered over there to see
Darlene, working away with small tools and brushes, discovering
something exciting with each day. As
visitors wandered through the Exhibit Hall, bones were displayed in
varying degrees of assemblage; giving visitors the opportunity to
visualize what sort of ancient creatures roamed this area, now so close
to downtown Los Angeles. Feeling
exhausted, he walked back inside and noticed a small black spot on his
beige Berber carpet. Did
that come from his shoes? He
quickly sat in the chair near the glass terrace doors and slipped off
his shoes. Damn, he must have stepped in some tar in the park.
How could he have been so stupid?
He picked up the shoes and walked to the kitchen, thinking about
how to get rid of it. He
would probably need some sort of solvent. The
phone rang. Holding both
shoes in one hand, he picked it up.
The voice on the other end interrupted him before he finished
saying hello. "I
need see you now.” The
broken English told him immediately who is was. “Yes, Shalmi, I've been expecting to hear from you.
Where shall we meet?” “Same
place, in hour. One o’clock.” “Right.
I’ll be there.” He placed the phone back in its cradle and he walked to his bedroom where he put the tar stained shoes on the floor closet, upside down. Feeling an urgent need to check the contents of the safe that was built into the floor, he spun the combination quickly and opened the door. Pulling out the wooden box, he placed it on the bed and opened it. It was hard to believe the precious contents were now his. In awe, his eyes devoured the contents. He very carefully picked up one of the small glass vials, and held it up to the lamp, looking at it closely. It was absolutely without a flaw, a beautiful treasure with a delicate, clear amber colored glass with gold embellishment. He laid it back carefully in it’s special place, and picked up a gold ring. Slipping it on his finger, he admired it with its rich dark gold color. The symbol on it was a mystery to Morgan, yet he knew buyers would find it a prized treasure. In fact, he thought, he must ask Shalmi the meaning of the symbol. It never ceased to amaze him that these beautiful, antique works made it all the way from Turkey to Los Angeles, and now into his apartment. Placing
the ring very carefully back in the box, he then picked up a small
snuffbox. Burnished metal
of some sort, bronze in color, the lid had a symbol that signified
smoke. He could barely
believe these items were just a few of the many he now had in his
possession. Fully aware of
the value of the goods, he was convinced they were the key to his
future. His lousy job at
LACMA would never afford him the retirement these items would once they
were sold. Closing the
treasure chest, he carefully placed it back in the safe and locked it.
The
clock on the night table told him he'd better be on his way.
He grabbed his beat up old Reeboks and put them on quickly.
He would take care of the tar on the other shoes later.
As far as the stain on the carpet, the cleaning lady would get
that tomorrow. She always
cleaned on Mondays. He
left the apartment and walked quickly down Wilshire Boulevard where he
entered the park adjoining the Tar Pits.
A few people sat on blankets under the trees, enjoying picnics
while their children ran about. Someone
called out, “Don't go inside that yellow ribbon, that stuff will get
on your shoes." Morgan
focused on the winding path leading to the bench where he’d met Shalmi
many times before. He was
convinced Shalmi wasn’t his real name, but yet he had confidence in
their agreement. It wasn’t
necessary to know his last name, his real name, or much more about him.
All Morgan needed to know was that Shalmi could and would do what
was expected of him. Their
agreement was solid and binding, that was always very clear. “Hello
friend.” Turning
around, Morgan was surprised to see Shalmi coming toward him from
behind. “Why
are you coming from that direction?” “I
park different place.” Shalmi
sat on the bench next to Morgan. He
spoke in a hushed tone. “Body
found. You know?” “Yes
I know. I saw it in the
paper. You didn't expect
her not to be found, did you?" “No,
but nervous about what paper say. What
we do now?” Shalmi’s
English was improving; however, it was very difficult for him to express
what he really wanted to say. He
read the Los Angeles news in one of the many foreign language papers
easily available at the local newsstands.
Morgan sensed he wanted to discuss more, but was unable to get
the words out. “What
do you mean exactly?" "Paper
talk tar and fingernails. Maybe
tar from here, ground? You
remember, she fight.” Morgan
had tried to block those details. She
had fought hard. Her
strength had surprised Morgan. It
was Shalmi who took charge and he took some comfort in that.
Those Turks, they had a stomach for gruesome things, it went way
back in their culture. Trying
to ingest that horrible moment, he finally said,
"Try to remain calm, Shalmi.
I’ll call Brian right away and see what he thinks.
The deal is still a go, I’m sure.” “Worried.
Scared.” Those two
words tumbled out of Shalmi’s mouth as he nervously stroked his
shaggy, graying beard. Shalmi
had good reason to be worried and scared.
After all, he was in the United States illegally.
The struggle to get to America had been a long and hard road,
beginning ten years previously. Grateful to be in America, he found his lack of education led
to menial jobs, from dishwasher to custodian.
Finally, with good fake documents, he got a job as porter, a
fancy name for custodian in MacArthur Park.
Named after the famed World War Two General, MacArthur Park was
one of the oldest parks in Los Angeles.
Unfortunately, the place had become a Mecca for drug deals. Until
he got involved with this smuggling of the treasures of his homeland,
his income only allowed him to rent a modest room.
Although his situation had changed considerably with the sale of
the treasures, he kept his porter job in order to keep a low profile.
Each day, he would park his new, black Mercedes over a half mile
away and walk to work, not wanting anyone to see the change that had
taken place in his life. Now,
because of his connections in Turkey from years past, he saw a brilliant
sun rising on his financial horizon.
It all began one sunny day when there was a rally in MacArthur
Park regarding Turkish humanities.
It was there that Morgan and Darlene had befriended him. Things snowballed from there. “I’ll
get back to you soon. I’m
sure the auction will still proceed as set up.
Just be careful, Shalmi, and don’t breathe a word about any of
this to anyone. I expect
tomorrow will be a problem when they miss her at work.” “Miss
Darlene?” “Yes,
of course. After all, she
was their top researcher at the Pits.”
Morgan hesitated to say much more about Darlene, but he was
fairly certain that Shalmi did not know that Darlene McLeod was also on
the Board for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. All he knew was they
had a deal going to sell this stuff and he got his fair share.
He wasn't concerned where the money came from, just as long as he
got his. Shalmi
stood up, a look of fear apparent in his black eyes. “We talk later.” Morgan
turned and watched his Turkish friend walk briskly out of the park,
dodging the areas restricted with yellow ribbon. Suddenly he stopped,
bent down, and picked up something.
Morgan held his arms out as if to say, “ What are you doing?” Shalmi
walked quickly back to Morgan, and held out his hand, opening it to show
what he’d picked up. “Button,”
he said. Was Miss Darlene’s.” “Get
rid of it, Shalmi. Now go,
and be careful.” Shalmi
walked quickly to his car as Morgan watched him get in his black
Mercedes and drive away. Morgan
left the park immediately and headed back to his apartment.
Damn, what is with this elevator?
Still not working? Just then a young lady walked into the lobby and read the
notice about the elevator not working. “You’d
think they could get this problem fixed, “ she said, turning to
Morgan. “What
is the problem? I haven’t
heard.” “You
haven’t heard? Everyone’s
talking about it. It seems
that maybe tar is oozing into the shaft and causing it not to work.” “No
kidding?” The
young lady obviously wanted to talk about it.
“We all know there’s lots of the goo around this area.
Always has been, always will be.
I guess we should expect problems from it.” “I
guess so,” Morgan said. He
watched her bound up the stairs and marveled at her energy. Later,
trying to organize his thoughts, Morgan sat on his couch and punched the
remote control nervously, scanning every television station for more
news on the body found at the beach.
There was not a word of it.
He then took a steaming hot shower, letting his pores open in a
futile psychological attempt to cleanse him of this mess.
Wrapping a towel around his hips, he went to the kitchen, poured
a scotch, and knocked it back. He
picked up the phone and thought of punching key number one, Brian McKee,
his attorney, an old college friend.
Then, remembering Brian was in Palm Springs for the weekend, he
crawled into bed and restlessly made it through the night. Chapter Two ~ Detective
Yanich Sanchez poured over the pictures of the body of the woman found
at the beach. His promotion
to detective was a long time coming, fifteen years on the force, and he
really wanted to get his teeth into this case.
Something about it intrigued him.
Maybe it was the fact he grew up in LA, knew every inch of the
city, and loved it. “What
do you think of the tar under her nails?
Is there a way we can pin this down?
Any leads yet on who she is?
He bounced question after question of his best buddy, Detective
Anthony Gamuso. What
a team they made, Mexican and Italian.
Together they could publish a cookbook that would set those
television chefs to shame. Their
work was solving crimes, but their passion was food. “You’re
not eating another cannoli, are you?”
Sanchez loved getting digs into Tony; he constantly battled with
his weight. “Shut
up and eat your frijoles, you beaner,” he retorted. They both laughed. “To
be serious Nick…” "Yeah,
what?” Tony interrupted. “I
got an idea that tar from her fingernails came from La Brea.
There hasn’t been tar at Seal Beach in months; I checked it
out.” Tony
raised his eyebrows as that idea sunk into him. The phone rang and broke the stream of conversation. Nick
picked it up. “Detective
Sanchez.” Tony
stood and walked toward the door of the small, dingy office.
As he closed the door behind him, he rapped his knuckles on the
wall next to the door, his trademark gesture for
‘see ‘ya later, buddy.' Nick
stood up and waved him back in, pointing at the phone as if what he was
hearing was important. "Thanks.
Send it by fax right away." "We
know who she is, that was a call about the blonde." "Yeah?
Who?" "Name's
Darlene McLeod." He
stood and walked toward the door. "Guess
where she worked?" Before
Tony could answer, he said, "La Brea Tar Pits. She was their numero uno researcher. Evidently worked there for years. Was on television just last week with the Mayor, something to
do with her research. The
television spot was reviewed; she mentioned her hobby was something to
do with old Turkish stuff and the Mayor commended her for her volunteer
job as a Board Member with the County Museum of Art.
Something like that, anyway." "That
may explain the stuff under her nails, huh?" "You mean her working at La Brea? Maybe, we'll see." Chapter Three Good
Morning Mr. Slatts.” The
receptionist at LACMA greeted him that way every single morning.
Jesus Christ, you’d think it was just a regular Monday, he
thought. Business as usual.
Of course, he realized, how could she know what he’d been going
through the past couple days? Can’t
she come up with something different?
Maybe, how are you? Or
how was your weekend? Something.
God, his nerves were ragged.
Try to be cool, don’t act as though something is bothering you,
he tried to convince himself. “And
good morning to you". That
ought to do it, he thought. He
shut the door behind him as he walked straight to his desk. He immediately dialed Brian, his attorney.
He knew he’d been in the office this morning. “Brian
McKee please.” The vein
flexed in his temple as he said in a demanding tone,
“He’ll talk to me. Interrupt
him.” The stress was
beginning to show in his voice. While
he waited, he thought of how far the two of them had come since their
old college days. At least
Brian finished college and had become quite successful in his practice.
He didn’t have to drop out like Morgan had. “Brian,
did you hear the news?” “Yes.
Don’t worry. Everything is still a go.” “When?
Same as planned?” “Same
as planned, next Sunday at Antiquities Plus.
You have the items, right?” “Yes,
I just went over everything last night.
Most all are in my safe. We’ll
talk later.” "Wait
a minute. What do you mean
most all? Where in the hell
are you keeping this stuff?" "Not
everything would fit in the safe Brian.
I mean, I can't get that sarcophagus, even though it's small,
into the safe. Think about
it. Everything is well
hidden in the closet and after all, I'm the only one there." Before
he could say goodbye, Clara Ann, his secretary knocked softly on his
door, cracked it open slightly, and peeked in.
He hung up the phone immediately; fearful she’d heard part of
his conversation with Brian. “What
is it Clara Ann? You look a
little pale.” Though
Clara had recently lost about forty pounds, she was pitifully
overweight. She walked
closer and dabbed at her eyes, reddened and teary.
“Did
you hear about the dead woman they found Saturday night at the beach?” “No,
what? he lied. “It
was Darlene McLeod, the researcher from La Brea. I heard it on the news." He
stood up and walked to her. She
began to sob, obviously shook up. “Didn’t
you know her?” “Only
slightly,” he lied again. “What
happened?” “They
say she was murdered. Who
would murder Darlene? She
was such a sweet girl. I
just saw her interviewed with the mayor the other day and now she's
gone. I just can’t
believe it." He
patted her shoulder as she openly sobbed.
“Do
they have any clues?” he asked, trying not to show any real concern,
although his stomach was in knots. “I
don't know." She took
a deep breath while her chin bristled, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Now,
now," he consoled her. “I’m
sure they’ll figure out what happened soon enough.
With all the tests they can run today, they’ll figure it out.”
He thought about the tar on his shoes in his closet and the
smudge on his carpet, then forced himself to retain his professional
manner with Clara Ann. “Now,
let’s get back to work. I
have a lot to take care of today and we’ve got that audit coming up.” “I’m
sorry Mr. Slatts, I just needed to talk to someone about it.” “Just
keep busy Clara Ann, you’ll feel better.
We have a lot to do today.” Now,
if he could just follow his own advice.
That would be the real test.
Chapter Four He
must have looked at the clock a thousand times that day.
It dragged on and on, even though he managed to stay busy.
His level of concentration was low, as he thought of the valuable
Turkish antiquities lying in his closet and in the safe.
Snug, and safe and sound, it hadn’t been easy getting some of
this stuff from Darlene’s apartment to his. He thought about the fact that the general population had no idea of the enormity of underground operations taking place daily in that far off corner off the world. If he hadn't met Darlene he probably wouldn't have known about it either. What a stroke of luck that was, meeting her at that New Years party. The real stroke of luck had come when they met Shalmi, that day in MacArthur Park. The contacts Shalmi had were invaluable, and he was ripe for the opportunity to make some money. Museums around the country bargained for these things, but now with auctions accepting the goods, the money had grown to a level none of them had dreamed. They’d even discussed selling some of these items on one of those online internet auction sites. It
was at that point that Darlene had begun to cause the group trouble.
Insisting that her share should be more than the others, they’d
argued intensely over the split of the money.
Why couldn’t she just be content with splitting the profits
equally? After all, there
was plenty to go around. Greed,
Morgan thought. That’s
what really killed her. Chapter Five ~ Maria
Gonzalez was grateful for the job she had cleaning several of the
apartments at the La Brea. She
detested the bus ride so far across town, but it was her only choice. Coming from Mexico, the promised good life in the United
States was not quite as she'd hoped, but it was better than what she
would have had in Mexico. She
cleaned two apartments a day, then took the bus back to East Los
Angeles, where she and her husband struggled to raise their two
teenagers. She
was pushing the vacuum across the living room when she noticed the spot
on the carpet. She bent
down and ran her fingers across it, trying to figure out what it was so
she could clean it. Some
kind of oil, or asphalt? She
then went to her cleaning supplies in the small closet located in the
utility room. Looking
through the various items, she thought maybe she could remove the stain
with an all-purpose cleaner. She
poured a small amount on a clean rag and rubbed it back and forth on the
carpet. The area became
slightly gray from the dampness of the cleaner, but the spot appeared to
be gone, and the rag was dark with its residue.
Thinking that Mr. Slatts shoes had tracked the dirty stuff in, she went to the bedroom and slid open the closet door. Sure enough, there were the two shoes upside down, one with a big spot of something dark stuck on the sole. She picked the shoe up and went to the kitchen where she took a paper towel and pulled off most of it. The remaining residue cleaned well with the all-purpose cleaner. She tossed the rag and paper towel into the wastebasket and then put the shoe back in the closet. Her eyes caught something leaning up in the corner of the closet. What in the world is that? she wondered. Usually things that people had in their apartments, their closets, their baths, anywhere—didn't matter to her, but this was an odd looking shape with a towel hanging over it. She gently pulled back the towel and studied the odd piece. The
darkness of the closet made if difficult to see.
Looks like some sort of small cabinet or something, she thought,
but that smell- what was that? Not
able to figure out what it was, she covered it back again with the
towel, closed the closet door, and went back to vacuuming.
The thought crossed her mind that maybe it was something Mr.
Slatts had brought home from the museum, however, she gave it little
thought. Before she left the apartment for the day, she wrote a note to Mr. Slatts:
She
signed the note Maria and left it in the closet, lying on the
shoes. Morgan
got home about four that day. He
left a little early, as it was impossible to concentrate on the upcoming
audit when he had problems of his own to resolve.
His next step would be to get the treasured items from his
apartment to Brian. He
poured his usual scotch and called Brian, anxious to talk to him. "Brian
McKee, please." He
paused a moment. "Morgan
Slatts," he responded to the question of who was calling.
You'd think she'd know my voice by now, he thought. "
Brian. Any news?"
"Not
good, Morgan. Meet me at
Tiger's at five-thirty. I've
got to talk to you." "What's
happened?" Morgan
asked with a tone of anxiety in his voice. "I'll
tell you when I see you. Bring
the stuff, if you can, but be very careful." "All
right. Is it bad
news?" "Five-thirty,
Morgan, Tigers." Before
Morgan could ask another question, Brian had hung up. He
poured himself another shot and swallowed it quickly, almost like a
medicine. He semi-collapsed
in his favorite chair and held the brown liquid up to view. What was it about Scotch that gave him courage?
It always had, that's what happened to his marriage in fact. Too
much courage, he used to think. Later,
after the divorce, he realized it was she who had driven him to drink,
but now after so many years of being alone, he liked his single life.
Darlene McLeod had somewhat muddled his plans for awhile, but
that was now behind him too. He leaned his head back, knowing he had a few minutes before
he would meet Brian. God,
he was tired. He thought about Darlene McLeod, and how sometimes he wished he'd never met her. She had satisfied his sexual needs very nicely, and her personality had definitely intrigued him, but it was her resourcefulness that had really fascinated him. How
one woman could manage to get these priceless things in the United
States all the way from Turkey and then sell them and make a bloody
fortune, well---it just overwhelmed him.
After all, she didn’t have the contacts that Shalmi had
afforded the group. For
awhile he thought he was in love with her, but when her demands became
too much, any thoughts of love turned to hate.
How could she turn against him, when they had made such headway and profits? The Museum was more than willing to pay for these priceless exhibits to help develop their new Antiquities Wing. She always wanted more, more, more. Somehow she couldn't see the other three were in just as deep. Shalmi was the one who should have a bigger cut, if anyone, Morgan thought. Couldn't
she see they had a captive audience and a willing customer in LACMA?
And why did she have to yell and scream so loud that the neighbor
downstairs had complained to the manager that night a few weeks ago? He had arranged for the deal with the new auctioneers; so it
wasn't her choice, couldn't she see how much more money they'd make?
They'd argued over and over about this new auctioneer and her
fear of being caught in the smuggling deal.
And what made her think she deserved more than the others?
He seethed just thinking of it. "So
shut up," he told her, shaking her so violently that she screamed
for him to leave her alone. He
figured that's when the neighbor made the complaint.
"Shut
your mouth up Darlene," he remembered telling her.
"Someone's going to hear you." He
found out the next morning, that sure enough, someone did hear her.
That's when he decided she needed to go.
She was in the way. Her
attractiveness evaporated with her greed.
He didn't need her to make these deals by now anyway; she'd
taught him a lot over the past year.
And not only that, he had Shalmi and Brian to complete the team. Shalmi
was anxious to increase his share of the profits anyway, so Morgan knew
he'd go for the elimination of Darlene McLeod.
Shrewd and savvy, though his English was difficult, the important
thing about Shalmi was his many connections in Turkey. He held the golden key that unlocked the Turkish door and
allowed the smuggled goods to flow into the United States. Morgan never really knew the details of getting the precious
items into the US, but that was okay with him.
The
Turkish community was large in Los Angeles, but Shalmi kept pretty much
to himself. He had his few,
important contacts, and that was what was primary in his life. Shalmi
would arrange for the import of the goods, Morgan would arrange for
their sale with the help of Darlene.
Brian arranged legal paperwork that accompanied the sale of the
goods. All was going well
until Darlene refused to share equally in the profits.
The greed of the woman had invoked an anger that Morgan had never
before felt. The
day after the yelling incident, Morgan called Shalmi and Brian on a
three-way conference call. "Darlene
has got to go, friends. She's
making threats about the split on the profits.
The woman has become a pariah around my neck." "Aren't
you being a bit radical Morgan," Brian said. "Not
at all. I've suffered long
enough with this bitch." "Let's
meet at the usual spot in the park and talk it over," Brian said. "Sure,
I be there," Shalmi agreed. "Is
eight good?” Morgan
asked, knowing it would be almost dark by then. "Good,
eight o'clock," Brian said. Suddenly,
Morgan realized he was supposed to be meeting Brian at Tiger's.
He quickly left the apartment, got in his car, and drove to
Tiger's on Beverly Drive. He
had another plan for the treasured goods in his apartment and was sure
Brian would go for it. Tiger's
was a small cocktail lounge in the Beverly Glen area of Los Angeles.
Morgan and Brian had met there many, many times over the years.
In fact, the owner was a guy they knew from their college days. As Morgan stepped inside, it took a second for his eyes to
adjust to the darkness. The
interior of the lounge was done in jungle motif, with large plants
placed strategically at the booths to allow for privacy between the
diners. He spotted Brian. Nervous
and anxious to hear what was bothering Brian, he said quietly,
"Hey, what's up?" Brian
wasted no time in getting right to the point.
"I had the cops, or I should say detectives, at my office
today." For
a minute, Morgan was speechless. Their
plan had been so well executed, how could this happen?
He
could almost feel the blood draining from his face, turning it ashen.
"I'm listening. Go
ahead." "They
went to Darlene's apartment. The
dumb broad had an address book in plain sight. Who knows what else they
found there? If she was
that stupid, she probably had a lot of the records, receipts, stuff like
that.” He took in a deep
breath and said, "What
if she was dumb enough to leave information about the smuggled stuff?
Or what if she had receipts for that last sale?"
He was talking almost non-stop.
"They asked me if I knew you." Morgan
could feel the sweat now on his brow and his hands were slippery.
"What did you tell them?" "Hell,
what could I say? We go too
far back to deny anything about us knowing each other.
You know that." "So
what do you think is next?" "Be
expecting a knock on your door, and soon, from these two guys.
One's named something Sanchez and the other is Anthony
Gamuso." He reached in
his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a card. "Oh yeah, it's Yanich Sanchez, I think they call him
Nick. They're smooth, but
deliberate. I don't feel at
all warm and fuzzy about these two, Morgan." Morgan
felt a ringing in his ears and his stomach churned. "I need a drink, " he said as he chewed on another
antacid tablet. Lately,
he'd been going through these things like they were candy. "Make
that two," Brian agreed. He
raised his hand and stuck up two fingers to the bartender, who knew
their usual order. Within
minutes, the barmaid brought the two scotches, straight up.
Brian McKee and Morgan Slatts drank the liquor as though they'd
been in the Sahara for weeks. "If
the cops found any of receipts or information at Darlene’s about the
stuff we got through Shalmi, they’ll ask for a search warrant. You can count on it. It
scares the crap out of me Morgan, it could happen. You need to get that stuff out of your apartment,
pronto." "Holy
Christ. Do you actually
think she’d keep information about this in her apartment?
I mean, all those records, and information about us?”
He was beginning to panic, talking fast and asking one question
after the other. “What do
you think we ought to do with the stuff?
The auction is Friday, that's only a couple days away.
What do you think about Shalmi?"
His mind raced with ideas flashing like a red light. "You
mean, Shalmi keeping the stuff?" "Yes,
exactly." "Can
we trust him to get the stuff to the auctioneer?" Morgan
leaned his face close to Brian's. "You’re
God damned right we can trust him.
After all, he's already in deeper than we are.
I'd trust that little Turk with my life.
I mean it Brian. He's
a good man." Brian
thought about Shalmi. "Of
course, he's going to get his cut.
Then he's getting out of the country as quick as possible. With his connections, he shouldn't have any trouble.
If he's not out of here quick, they'll be on him like you know
what." "He's
cool, Brian. Listen to me
now. Here's what we should
do." "I'm
listening." "I'll
get the stuff to Shalmi tomorrow, first thing.
He'll take care of it. Friday
we cash out and lay low until this thing goes away." "Goes
away?" "Yes,
Brian. After all, it wasn’t
you or I that killed Darlene, just remember that." Guilt hung heavy
over him, being with Shalmi that fateful night, but at least it wasn't
he who had killed her. "Yeah,
okay, but the whole thing stinks, Morgan.
This is going to end my love affair with Turkish antiquities.
I'm telling you now, I want nothing more to do with this
stuff." "Not
to worry. I'm taking a slow
boat to anywhere with my cut. I'm
going to be starting a new life ASAP." The two old friends left the booth, got in their separate cars, and drove away from Tiger's. Morgan never did see the car following him all the way back to the La Brea Apartments. Chapter Six ~ Morgan’s
thoughts were so focused. he drove faster than usual into the apartment
parking area. It surprised
him when the tires squealed as he parked in his reserved spot.
He got out of his car and quickly stepped back, startled by the
black car that pulled up right behind his.
He’d read of car-jackings, follow-home robberies, and all sorts
of stuff like this lately; was this what was going to happen? Why hadn’t I noticed the car following me, he scolded
himself. “Mr.
Slatts?” How
do they know my name? Before
he could begin to say anything the taller man spoke. “Detective
Sanchez, LAPD. This is
Detective Gamuso. We need a
few minutes with you.” They
both flipped out their identification badges.
“Okay,
what's this all about?" the
shock apparent in his expression. Suddenly,
he realized these two are the same guys who Brian was talking about.
He was sure his face had lost all color. “We’re
investigating the murder of Darlene McLeod.
Your name was just one of many in her address book.
You’re not under arrest, we’re just following all leads.”
He recalled Brian's description of the two -- smooth. Morgan
swallowed hard, his mouth was dry as cotton, and forced himself to show
some semblance of composure. “Sure, come on up.”
Squeezing in what he hoped were inaudible intakes of air, the
three walked into the reception area of the apartment. “Well, surprise. The elevator is working.
It’s been out of commission for a few days now.
Said that tar seepage caused it not to work.” “Really?”
Sanchez said. “Yes,
it’s a problem around this area.
It’s all over the park just next door.” Gamuso
was quiet, deftly observing Slatts demeanor and thinking about what he’d
just said. Sweat appeared
on Morgan’s forehead and he wiggled his left hand as if affected by
palsy. Morgan
unlocked the door and the three men walked in. “How
did you know Darlene McLeod?"
Detective Gamuso asked Morgan. Tony
wandered over to the kitchen, snooping a bit. "Don't mind me, just
seeing what your kitchen is like."
Morgan
was speechless, scared out of his wits.
He simply shrugged his shoulders, as if to say 'go ahead, fine.'. "I
dated her a little." His
voice was almost inaudible. "Sorry,
I didn't hear you." "We
dated awhile. I'd been at a
few get togethers with her, through our work." "Just
kind of a casual relationship, would you say?
"Yes,
that's about it." "We
have a search warrant Mr. Slatts."
Gamuso reached in his pocket and handed it to Morgan.
Mind if we look around?"
Morgan
said nothing, the shock setting in. Brian was right. That address book and who knows what else they found at
Darlene's apartment had done it. He
quickly looked at the warrant, not knowing exactly what he was seeing. "We
may come back another day for a more intense search, but for now the two
of us just want to take a quick look, if you don't mind." "Go
ahead, sure." Morgan
was stunned and sat in his favorite chair, leaning forward with his
hands cupping his face and his elbows on his knees.
The fear of the detectives finding the small sarcophagus in the
closet and the floor safe’s contents sent a shock wave through him. The
two detectives began their search by quietly opening cupboards and
drawers in the kitchen. Sanchez
continued there, while Gamuso went to the bedroom. Sanchez opened the utility closet door and scanned the
shelves. A pungent odor
attacked his senses and he bent down to the small wastebasket. Rummaging through old rags he pulled one out that smelled of
some sort of solvent. Holding
it up with both hands, he wondered what the dark stain was in the middle
of the rag. He pulled a
plastic bag from his coat pocket and placed the rag in it. “Nick,
come in here please,” Tony called out. Hearing
that, Morgan walked quickly to his bedroom.
Not the closet, please, he silently prayed. The
three men were now in the bedroom.
Detective Anthony Gamuso stood near the closet with the towel
that covered the sarcophagus in one hand and a small piece of paper in
the other. The shoes that
had the tar on them were on the floor, upside down.
“This could be something we’re looking for, Nick.”
He handed the note to Nick, pointed to the shoes and wooden box
on the floor. “You
want to tell us what this is, Mr. Slatts?” Morgan
said nothing. Even if he
knew what to say, he was sure no sound would come from his vocal chords. “Let’s
get this floor safe opened, Mr. Slatts.” Somebody’s
pager buzzed, and both the detectives reached for their belts.
“It’s yours Tony,” Nick said. Tony
picked up his pager and read the message, TURKISH SUSPECT IN CUSTODY.
He pulled out his cell phone, walked out of the bedroom and into
the kitchen. Sanchez and
Slatts stayed in the bedroom with the contents of the treasure chest
spread out on the bed. The
one sided conversation could be heard as Gamuso spoke loudly into his
phone. “Detective
Gamuso here, go ahead.” He
listened with an intense expression on his face, and then a slight smile
gave way. “That’s
good news, we’ll be there soon. We
got a lot of stuff here; it appears to tie in with the evidence from the
victim’s apartment.” He
put the cell phone back in his pocket and went back to the bedroom.
“It’s
Miranda-Rights Time, “ he said to Slatts. Morgan
Slatts was read his rights and cuffs placed on him. He wanted to run; run as fast as he could and never look
back, but it was too late. “Please,
I don’t want my neighbors to see me like this,” he pleaded.
“I need to call my attorney.” “It’s
late, probably no one will see you.
Just go quietly now, Mr. Slatts,” Detective Sanchez assured him
as he escorted him to the elevator.
“You can call your attorney as soon as we get to the station. It’s Brian McKee, right?” Morgan
felt his whole world spiraling out of control.
Not only had they talked to Brian, but also they now had
confiscated his precious treasures.
He berated himself for not getting rid of that note from Maria.
How could he be so stupid? The
three left the apartment with Gamuso carrying the small sarcophagus and
the treasure box. Sanchez
had the tennis shoes and the note in plastic bags, plus another small
plastic bag with the rag inside. They
put the confiscated items in the trunk of the black, unmarked car.
Gamuso opened the back door and helped an awkward Morgan Slatts
get inside. The detectives
settled into the front seat and left the parking lot, headed to the
station. Barely out onto
Wilshire Boulevard, Sanchez asked Gamuso, “What was the call about?” “The
Turk, Shalmi Gulva, is in custody.
Looks like we’re going to wrap this up pretty quick.” “Where’d
they get him?” “Picked
him up on the 405, heading to LAX, speeding.” “What
was he driving?” “A
black Mercedes.” If you'd like to contact Joyce Wade, she'd love to hear from you: AVJOYCE@aol.com |
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