he was ostensibly responsible for protecting society from.
“Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with why Mr. Kenum was incarcerated.”
The parole officer sighed. “Mr. Kenum was convicted of murder in the second degree.”
“I see.”
“Spent the last thirty years or so in prison,” the parole offer said. “He’s paid his dues.” That seemed to be the extent of Mr. Attebury’s sales effort on behalf of his charge.
“I’ll be the judge of that, sir,” Mary said. “We certainly don’t take murder lightly here at SRM. Shoplifting and indecent exposure, yes. Murder, no.”
Mary tapped some keys on her computer, then asked a few more trivial questions before she went for the treasure.
“Under present address he wrote something indecipherable and then simply wrote Los Angeles,” she said. “If my client hires him, the first training he’ll receive will no doubt be a penmanship course. But in the meantime, do you have his correct street address? I’ll need it to mail the necessary forms as I believe my client will most likely offer him employment.”
The tumblers fell into place and the P.O. gave Mary everything she needed.
“Thank you,” Mary said. “I believe Mr. Kenum will be receiving some good news shortly.”
The P.O. had already hung up.
On the way to Kenum’s, Mary thought about Harvey Mitchell. The only guy in the group, other than Braggs, who’d made it big. She pictured the pompous ass in her mind from when she’d seen him on television. Smooth gray hair. Teeth a little bit too big for his mouth but perfectly Hollywood white. Slightly heavy, but still with that dignified look men with good features can possess late into life.
Harvey was the late night talk show host who had known Marie Stevens the best, according to the old men. Unfortunately, she hadn’t spoken with him yet, and he was her best lead as to what may have happened to the Mysterious Marie. Or Crazy Marie as the gang of old men had called her.
Mary called an agent friend who knew everyone in town. After some small chitchat, Mary got the name of Harvey Mitchell’s agent, who in turn gave her Mitchell’s assistant’s phone number.
While she waited on hold, Mary thought about Mitchell. She’d caught his show a time or two, enough to know that Mitchell thought he was funnier than he actually was. And that he could be demeaning to guests of lesser stature, and annoyingly ass-kissy to the big stars. She hadn’t tuned in much after that.
But according to the Nielsen ratings, apparently the older folks loved him. Mary thought he looked like a blubbery Lawrence Welk.
Mary took the 405 down to a frighteningly bad neighborhood near South Central, near David Kenum’s address, while she waited for Mitchell’s assistant to take her call. Mary unconsciously touched the Para .45 in her shoulder holster.
“Claudia Ridner,” a bright, chirpy voice said through Mary’s cell phone.
“I’d like to make an appointment to chat with Mr. Mitchell. My name is Mary Cooper and I’m investigating the murder of my uncle, Brent Cooper.”
“What does this have to do with Mr. Mitchell?” the assistant asked, not sounding so bright and chirpy anymore.
“He should be able to answer some questions regarding certain issues in the case…”
“Mr. Mitchell is very busy.”
Mary didn’t like being interrupted. “My uncle was busy too, until he had his throat slit. Do you want me to talk to Mitchell or do you want the cops to talk to him? Or maybe a few reporters who would like to know about his links to a brutal murder?”
There was a long silence.
“There is a half hour opening tomorrow, starting at 3 o’clock.”
“Yippee,” Mary said. “Claudia, you’re a peach!”
Mary put the phone away and looked across the street at David Kenum’s apartment building. Lovely. Gray brick falling apart in every place imaginable, with pathetic little balconies featuring black wrought iron. Not useable because the windows had bars on them.
Mary knew why Kenum had picked this place. It must have reminded him of prison.
She got out of the Honda and walked to the front of the building. For some weird reason, she felt eyes on her. She didn’t put any store in that goofy premonition shit. Or sixth sense crap. But still, she felt strange. Maybe the pasta last night had been bad.
A boy came out of the building with a bike. He bounced it down the stairs.
“It goes faster if you pedal,” Mary said. He looked at her, and Mary wondered if he knew she was kidding.
“What, bitch?” the little boy