Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,5

as well as this guy was taking it.

“You were highly recommended,” the man said. “Your discretion, loyalty and tenacity were called second to none.” His face was pale and an edge crept into his voice. “Your bedside manner, however, was not listed as one of your strong suits. I see why.”

A couple comments popped into her head, mostly about bedside manner, but this time, she didn’t let them slip out.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t tell if he really believed she meant it, but she did. She just didn’t know how to tell him. Like her bedside manner, ‘opening up’ wasn’t one of her strong suits. “This probably won’t help, but you know it’s rarely about the spouse,” Mary said. “Usually they’re looking for something that’s lacking inside themselves.” Mary thought about what she’d just said. What was Jake lacking? Besides a fucking backbone.

“It’s okay,” her client said, looking again at the photographs. “How disgusting. Clive and I play basketball together.”

Clive clearly preferred going one-on-one with Beverly, but Mary didn’t offer that up for discussion. It was a rare moment of self-editing.

“I know it isn’t easy,” she said. It always went this way. Cuckolded spouses, both male and female, always focused on the friend or the neighbor or the co-worker. Rarely ever the cheating spouse. Probably to distract them from the depth of the true betrayal.

Her client stood, took out his checkbook and scribbled out a check. He ripped it off with a controlled fury and dropped it onto her desk.

“Thank you,” he said. “I trust you’ll save those if litigation becomes necessary.”

“Absolutely,” Mary said. Sometimes they wanted a copy of the pictures to brood over while getting shitfaced. Some couldn’t wait to get away from them.

Mary cleared her throat. “If you know of anyone looking for a private investigator, please feel free to recommend me.” She hated doing the sales pitch, but it was a necessity of the trade.

“Of course,” he said, and walked out the door.

Mary wondered. That had sounded a little sarcastic.

Mary locked the photographs in her safe, then drove directly to the Leg Pull. There was still just enough daylight for Mary to get a good look at the place. In the sunlight, the club looked like a hungover version of itself: pale, tired and vaguely ill.

She didn’t bother to go back to the alley for another look, nothing back there but bad endings. There was a part of her that wanted to wait, to get a little more perspective on the death of her uncle before she dove into the investigation. But that wasn’t good investigative work. So despite the fact that the anger and hurt were still raw inside of her, she forged ahead. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later.

A bored waitress told her where she could find the club’s owner/manager. She walked back to the office, her shoes occasionally making sticking sounds on the wood floor.

The door to the office was open and Mary saw a slim bald man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on silk pants, a wrinkled silk shirt and cologne that could double as a pesticide, which probably made a lot of sense in this dump.

There was a cheap desk sign, probably from Rite-Aid, letting visitors know the manager’s name was Cecil Fogerty. He reminded Mary of Al Pacino’s brother in The Godfather.

“What’s up Fredo?” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“I’m Mary Cooper,” she said. “I want to talk to you about the murder last night.”

He looked her up and down, without shame.

“Cooper? Did you say your name’s Cooper?”

“You can hear.”

“What are you, Brent’s daughter?”

“I’m actually his pimp,” Mary said. “I want to find out who destroyed my property. They owe me at least three tricks’ worth.”

He gave a weird little laugh that sounded like rodents scurrying behind a wall.

“Nah, you’re related to Brent, I can tell,” he said. His little eyes shone with the pride of his intellect.

“Actually, Columbo, I’m his niece.”

“Niece, huh? He never talked about you.”

Mary looked around Cecil’s office. Tiny, cramped, and the walls filled with photos of celebrities you just couldn’t quite place. Mary tried not to notice the smell of Cecil’s horrible cologne combined with stale cigars and body odor. And she tried not to think about this place being the last stop, the end of the line for Uncle Brent.

“Yeah, well I didn’t really talk about him a whole lot, either,” she said. “At least, until he got slaughtered behind your club.”

Cecil didn’t know what to say so