Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,34

he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent’s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”

“I’ve been thinking of nothing but. Obsessing would actually be the better term for it.”

“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”

“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.

“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They’re actually a fun bunch.”

“Laugh a minute, I’m sure, Whitney.”

Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”

“That would presuppose I have a style, Mr. Braggs.”

“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Absolutely not, dear lady,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? Complete balderdash, my lady!”

“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”

“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your buttocks, the firm ripeness of your bountiful breasts-”

“I am armed, Mr. Braggs.”

Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.

Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.

Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.

She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.

Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.

With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.

The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews headed by a celebrity she’d never heard of. Clubs she’d never heard of. Movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.

The very first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.

She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.

The twenty-six living would be