A Not So Model Home (17 page)

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Authors: David James

BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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C
HAPTER 26
You Have the Right to Remain Horny
T
he police arrived, guns drawn until we held up our hands and showed we were no threat. I gave a quick explanation of what just happened, minus the gunshots, so they would not only trust us, but so they wouldn't mess up the clear footprints left by my assailant in my garbage-covered garage floor, courtesy of the late-summer desert winds. As I looked over at Knucklehead, who was calmly taking everything in, I noticed he was standing on a piece of cloth that he must have torn from the leg of my attacker. That would explain the tearing sound I heard while Knucklehead was growling. I looked at it carefully while the police were calling for more units to arrive. Eureka! The cloth was very fine. I mean, very fine. It should be easy to trace this piece of fabric. I got my iPhone out of my purse and took a picture of the cloth since I would have to give it up for evidence. Knucklehead took a good chunk out the assailant's pant leg, because the piece was about three by four inches. Good boy! I called the policeman over and pointed to the piece of cloth. There must be samples of DNA on the cloth. The police came, took down our stories (Regina's being much more dramatic than mine, even though I was the one being strangled), photographed the scene, and to my delight, made two casts of the footprint. Jerry called and said he had two homicides tonight and could he please see me in the morning? He offered police protection, but I said I had another place to stay for the night. I had plans.
If you didn't count the dented garbage cans or the cop stationed out front for the night, no one would ever know that a life-and-death struggle had gone on right in my carport. Except for a few nosy neighbors, who occasionally peeped out of their curtained windows.
I called Ken first and told him all the details, having left out my meeting with Jerry earlier. He was worried about my safety, but I convinced him I could take care of myself. I told him I would stay at Alex's house since it was alarmed to the teeth and nearly impregnable. Plus, I would take my suddenly protective Knucklehead as my guardian. Then I called Alex, who was out of town climbing Thunderbolt Peak in the Sierras. I laid my trap and he fell right into it.
“Why don't you stay at my place for the time being?”
“Alex, that's so sweet. I hadn't even thought of that. It's been a long day, discovering Aleksei's corpse, investigating the potting shed, talking with Aurora, grocery shopping, and getting almost killed. I'm ready to pack it in for the day.”
“You've got a key and you know the alarm . . . turn it on tonight. On another note, you're a smart woman, Amanda. Obviously someone in that house is worried that you're getting too close to the truth.”
“Apparently.”
“So what did you do today and yesterday?”
“Why a two-day timeframe?”
“Because if you're a killer and you're afraid someone is going to expose you, you're not going to wait days to strike. You're going to do it fast.”
“Okay,” I started, thinking about what I did the last twenty-four hours. “I got up, brushed my teeth . . .”
“No, not the stuff you did alone. Anything you did interacting with someone from Ian's house. E-mailing, telephoning, filming.”
“I'll tell you the weirdest thing, Alex. As I was walking toward the potting shed, I could swear someone was following me.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, not a thing. Just a creepy feeling that someone was watching me.”
“Don't discount that feeling. Someone probably was there. Did Aurora give you any good clues?”
“Just the usual: anyone could have done it.”
“Well, my dear Amanda, you better get packing and get over to my house. Set the alarm to ‘home' so that it will go off instantly if anyone tries to get in a door or window.”
“Okay, I will, Alex. And be careful tomorrow. Thunderbolt Peak is a really dangerous climb. I wish you and your team would tackle something easier.”
“Amanda, life isn't worth living if you don't throw some challenges in there.”
“Okay, Alex, you go take on a challenge. I'll stay here in Palm Springs and concentrate on living. Or trying to remain that way.”
 
The next day, thankfully, there was no filming, but we would be working practically nonstop from now on to wrap up the series. Besides catching up on some real-estate work, I was supposed to sit down with Jerry and go through footage of Keith's memorial lunch, looking for clues.
I arrived at a local video studio to view the video and was escorted to a small booth where Jerry was sitting there with an editor.
“Hey, Amanda, good morning,” he said as though the other night had never happened. Maybe it hadn't. I decided to play along. What choice did I have? Plus, it was better this way. I needed to figure out my relationship with Ken before I went out and confused the matter by adding Jerry to the mix.
“Good morning, Jerry.”
“Amanda, this is Steve, our editor, who we can call on if we need him. He's cued up all the footage from the luncheon. Let me see here,” he said, turning a control knob, which made a monitor in front of us come to life.
We watched as the guys insulted each other, ate food, and revealed dirty secrets about each other. Nothing out of the ordinary . . . at least for this crowd.
Jerry said, “Okay, so Drake is a sexual master to Ian and he's practiced autoerotic asphyxia with Aleksei before. And Aleksei ends up that night strangled with one of Drake's ties.”
“You've confirmed that the tie belonged to Drake?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Jerry answered. “Brooks Brothers.”
“I guess that doesn't look good for Drake, does it?”
“I wouldn't hang the whole case on that fact, Amanda. Anyone could have gotten the tie out of Drake's room. Nobody seems to lock their doors at Casa Iffy.”
“What about the cum on the floor in Aleksei's room?”
“Samples are at the lab.”
“So we'll get results back Monday?” I asked eagerly.
“Amanda, this isn't
CSI
. It takes weeks to get results back from the lab in Riverside.”
“Can't they move any faster? This is important!”
“Tell that to the Bureau of Forensic Services. Amanda, they've got hundreds of cases in front of my two samples.”
“Two?” I asked.
“Aleksei's DNA and Keith's paternity DNA.”
“You don't trust what Keith said . . . about Ian being his father?”
“I did some investigating, made some calls to Scotland, and a lot of what Keith claimed checks out. I'm just trying to be thorough. So that's what this remark from Aleksei about ‘seeing them kissing was disgusting' is about?”
“Oh, they did a lot more than that, Jerry. They had sex.”
“I heard.”
“So?” I commented.
“What do you want me to do, arrest Ian?”
“No, it's not the fact that Ian had incest, but that he's not even remorseful about it.”
“Again, Amanda, I can't arrest Ian for that. As for the rest of the secrets Aleksei spilled, infantilism with diapers, golden showers, enforced feminization, and pony play . . .”
I stopped Jerry by laying a hand on his. “What exactly is pony play?”
“Pony play is where guys dress up in outfits, usually leather, with masks and hoofs and everything, and act like ponies.”
“Whhhyyyyy?” I asked.
“I think it has to do with the idea of being controlled. Being treated like an animal. Doggie play is the same thing.”
“I thought doggie was where the one partner . . . never mind. Continue.”
“So David is into enforced feminization . . . where he's
forced
to wear the clothes of a woman . . .”
“I know what enforced feminization is, Jerry. The point is whether having all these embarrassing sexual proclivities revealed to the world is enough to cause one of the guys to go ape shit and murder because of it.”
“I really don't know, Amanda. This case has me stumped so far. The motive seems to keep moving around. Money, revenge, paternity, rage.”
“One thing is certain, though, Jerry.”
“What's that?”
“Palm Springs is anything but dull.”
C
HAPTER 27
Okay, You Can Open Your Eyes Now
I
slept soundly that night. When I got up in the morning, I got my chance to do what I came to Alex's house for in the first place: snoop through his things. I wanted to see if his tales of “not seeing anyone special” were really true. They were. There were no pictures of new boyfriends in his clothing drawers, in his office, or the bathroom. And my photograph in a silver frame was still there on his bedside table that had the look that it was probably never moved, even when he brought a date home for the evening. Every time I came to his house, I always had to use the restroom so I could pass his bedroom and take a peek inside. I guess I was just looking for proof that we were soul mates. We still were. I just knew it was going to be a good day.
At 6
A.M.
, I drove over to Ian's house for another day of shooting. The plan was to start off with a quiet memorial service at Ian's house since Aleksei's parents had disowned him years ago for first being gay, then being a model, then getting hooked on crystal meth. I can see tough love with a son on crystal, but for being gay and a model? What can you expect from Christian fundamentalist parents living in Indiana? So much for forgiveness and acceptance.
The service was small and, of course, being taped for the show. The difference between Keith's and Aleksei's services was that this one was being held indoors, away from hawks. And to avoid tempting fate, there would be no releasing of doves this time. Ian did summon his guru Sai Baba Shu Baba again to collect another five thousand dollars and lead us in a prayer for Aleksei's soul so that it would transmutate or something into a tree or cow or merge with Shiva. I couldn't understand half the things the guru muttered.
We stood, holding hands in a circle in Ian's living room with our heads down for what seemed like an eternity. I kept staring down, noticing everything from the guru's shoes (this time, monk straps probably by Crockett & Jones or maybe Church's—I have to admit, the con man had great taste in shoes) to the other shoes in the cast, Drake's, David's, Ian's, Darryn's, then Aurora's. I didn't dare look up or around the room since the cameras were rolling. God, my neck was getting sore, I thought. How long can this guy go on chanting?
And then it hit me. Or rather, I saw it. Something I had seen somewhere else. And why it all bothered me from the moment I saw it. It was in front of me all the time. Staring me in the face and I missed it! I almost shouted, I was so excited about the possibility, but we had a whole day of shooting ahead of us. I could, however, slip out at lunch break since what I was looking for was right here on Ian's grounds.
We were supposed to be, in Jeremy's words, reaching the peak of the story arc, with the members of the show moving from “weakness to a place of strength,” whatever that was. All I saw was bitchiness, territorial marking, tempers flaring, and Aurora keeping a scorecard at the end of each show. It was hard to tell who was winning, but the viewers' favorite was Darryn. Everyone loved Darryn, despite the fact that Aurora reiterated her belief that the winner had to be able to stand up to Ian's reprehensible qualities. But make no mistake about it, the show had shot into the stratosphere in the ratings category. And although the Q Channel cable network was eager for even more people to add the premium channel to their home lineup, millions of viewers were watching the episodes on the Q Channel's Web site, which was riddled with advertisements from some very happy companies. Then, during filming, Aurora announced that she was close to making a decision with Ian about the winner of the program. The timing was perfect, I thought.
We broke for lunch and I made my move. I went back out of the house, through the yard and directly to the potting shed, and went inside. This time, there was no creepy feeling of being followed or watched. There, on a bottom shelf was the one item that shouldn't have been there: the dented paint can. A dent in the side or, to be more precise, a crunch in the side. Even more telling were the two dents in the bottom—each approximately one-fourth of an inch in diameter. Dents created from the outside of the bucket, not the inside. Exactly three inches apart. They were extremely significant, but they didn't tell the whole story.
I put my find back on the shelf and went to my car to make a call to Detective Hallander where I wouldn't be overheard. I told him about my discovery and said that we needed to talk to Jeremy as soon as he was finished shooting this afternoon. I also said that we had a lot of work to do over the weekend. Early next week, during a show's taping, and just after the winner of the contest was announced, we would pounce.
I finished my call and as I was getting out of my car, I spotted a homeless man poking through the trash. Like so many of us, I normally move on after seeing them, and this only serves to make me feel guilty, since being invisible is the one thing they complain about the most. Anyway, something about this particular man struck me: He looked well dressed. Palm Springs has always had snappy dressers: Cary Grant, William Powell, and, ahem, Liberace, but our homeless have never made the pages of
GQ.
Something was wrong here, or actually, right here. There was a connection to the models in Ian's house somehow. I crossed the street and approached the gentleman. As I looked him up and down, I saw that at the bottom of his pant leg there was a piece torn out about the size Knucklehead had removed from the cuff of my assailant last night. Eureka! I was right: This was going to be a great day.
“Excuse me, sir. Please don't think I'm an asshole, but where did you get your clothes?”
“These?” he said, somewhat startled. “They're mine.”
“Yes, I see. I was just wondering where you got them from? They're very nice . . . you look very nice. Snazzy,” I said with complete discomfort.
“I got 'em from the fuckin' Armani boutique in Milan.”
“I was just asking a question, sir, you don't have to be rude about it,” I shot back, having screwed up my courage.
“You trying to have sex with me, lady?” he said, looking up at me. He then returned to pawing through and examining several empty bottles of men's cologne.
“No, I was just wondering what charity organization gave you those clothes.”
He looked at me, exasperated. “No charity organization gave me these, ya goddamned bitch. I found them in the Dumpster behind the Hyatt.”
“You mean the Hyatt just down the street?”
“You know of any other Hyatts in town?” he sneered back.
Okay, easy now, Amanda. You're getting somewhere. He just doesn't like revealing his fashion sources.
“If you could give me those clothes, I'll . . .” I said, thinking fast, “see to it that you receive a lot more nice clothes.”
“Get lost, you bitch, I'm not six years old. Give me more nice clothes! . . . Fuck! . . . You goddamn bitch!”
I was hit by a ray of light.
“Maybe this nice Mr. Jackson will help you change your mind,” I said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and waving it as if it left a scent wafting through the air toward starving noses.
“A twenty! What do you think it is, lady? 1940? I wanna see more than that if you want me to give up these fancy duds. This suit was made by Anderson & Sheppard, the best tailor in London.”
“You know about them?” I asked.
“Yeah, I used to own four of their suits.”
“Really?!”
“Yeah, I used to be a Realtor. Until things got bad.”
“Shit. I'm about one commission check from joining you. But sir, please, I
really
need that suit!” I pleaded. I opened my purse and pulled eight more twenties and a fifty from my wallet. “Perhaps these will help. They'll help keep that lonely Mr. Jackson company . . .” I tried to say, but Mr. Charming had already snatched the group of bills from my hand.
“Cut the private-eye crap, bitch. Like I said, it's not 1940! I'll get out of these right now if you'll just leave me to my hunting and shut up about all the Dashiell Hammett shit.”
And he took everything off right there, standing naked right in front of me as cars drove by and mothers struggled to cover the eyes of their children in the backseat. I wandered over to my car, popped the back hatch, and threw the clothes inside, vowing to have them dry-cleaned at least twice. I looked at the label: Anderson & Sheppard. Oh man, this was going to be easy, I thought. As I turned around, my homeless man had already pulled out a T-shirt and shorts from Ian's garbage and put them on. The T-shirt said, and I'm not kidding, G
IORGIO
A
RMANI
.

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