Bury Me With Barbie (12 page)

“Anything else? Does she have anything of value anyone would want?”

“Just her dolls,” Sally said. “I would have to look and see if they’re all there.”

Francis and Brinkman exchanged a quick glance. They had heard about the cases in Oswego and Tuscon. Was this related? Anything was possible.

Zivia Uzamba lived in the exclusive Canyon Gate community in Vegas.

Close to midnight on her second night in town, P.J. Google mapped the route to Zivia’s home and made a beeline to her neighborhood. The city was awash with visitors mesmerized by flashing neon signs and attractions. She blended in with the heavy traffic effortlessly.

Zivia’s husband, a bodyguard for rapper Lil Beef, had been arrested before a hip-hop awards ceremony by federal authorities charging him with possession of six unregistered machine guns. T.I. was once arrested on similar charges, with much more media attention.

In honor of Lil Beef, his entire entourage was encouraged to subsist entirely on hamburgers and steak and call themselves anti-vegetarians. Rick Uzamba vowed to continue the all-beef regimen after he posted a four million dollar bond, largely consisting of equity on his $8.5 million Las Vegas residence. He was escorted home, committed to house arrest for a year.

Zivia complained on the Best Barbie Board that Rick was driving her crazy, eating massive amounts of ground beef mixed with a little bit of pasta and sauce and then falling asleep in his music room with his headphones on and a white paper napkin shoved in the neckline of one of his many Lil Beef tour t-shirts. This happened nearly every night, she said, so P.J. wasn’t worried that he would deviate much from his given routine on a random Wednesday night.

It would be important for P.J. to take care of Rick first, to get him out of the way. She had no idea which room either he or Zivia would be in. The estate was massive, consisting of nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, screening room, bowling alley, music room, doll room, and den.

Wherever Rick was, it was likely Zivia would not be with him. If Rick had a drink, P.J. was prepared to spike it courtesy of her baggie full Dormicum tablets, courtesy of Darby.

She had four strips of fifteen-milligram blue oval tablets. They were now in the left breast pocket of the plaid flannel button-down shirt she wore as a light jacket.

Just in case Rick didn’t have a drink nearby as he ate and listened to music, P.J. also had a handful of ten-milliliter sealed glass vials of Dormicum that she’d poured into two separate hypodermic needles and put in her right breast pocket, needles upward. Darby had her practice administering water into oranges via hypodermic, and by the time his trash was full of bloated Sunkists, she felt competent at using the needle.

As a backup to the drugs, P.J. brought sharp wire with her. If it came to strangling, wire would be her choice because it lacked bulk. The wire was not specific enough to be traced, but to be safe Darby had secured it from a friend of a friend living in Boston.

P.J. parked down the street and walked toward the house, which did not have a security gate at the foot of the driveway. Walking along the hedges toward the back of the house, she saw a series of sliding glass doors leading into expansive rooms filled with marble support columns, Travertine floors interspersed with stretches of rose-colored carpeting, and wide, open windows. As was often the case when the front of a house was shut tight, the back area, which included tiered Cocobolo decks, a hot tub, a pool, gardens, umbrellaed tables, and lounge chairs, was open and inviting because shrubbery lent the illusion of privacy and security.

Standing in the shadows of the hedges in her over-sized men’s sneakers (if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit), P.J. saw that Zivia was in an upstairs bathroom.

The window was open and she heard the sound of running water. Logically, the bedrooms were all upstairs, and it was unlikely she would return downstairs anytime soon. On the BBB, Zivia had shared how much she enjoyed lengthy showers and hot baths with salts, aromatherapy candles, and the soothing music of Five for Fighting.

On the backside of the house, one room away from the sliding glass door leading into the corner room, P.J. saw flickering lights sparking off the windowpane. Creeping along the length of the backyard, she realized it was reflection off the big screen TV Rick was watching. The huge window helped her judge the room’s layout and her prospective entry point. His back would be toward the door to the room as he relaxed in his recliner, headphones off and lying near a speaker. It was not music he was listening to tonight; the speakers were cranked and a
Sin City
played across the screen.

Rick had a folding table set up alongside his chair, blanketed with dishes and a tall, iced drink. So much for Rick’s pact to only eat steak and BK burgers (hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, hold the mayo, hold the bun). Traces of ravioli, gnocchi, and clams swimming in red sauce remained in dishes pushed to the edge of the table, in danger of spilling onto the carpet.

On the floor stood a bottle of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum, which he reached for now, tipping the bottle into his glass, refilling it to the rim.

Rick himself was an African-American Hulk, so strangling him was out of the question. He looked strong enough to reach back and flip her over his head within seconds of having the wire around his neck, sending her crashing to the floor. At 5′8″ and 120 pounds, she didn’t stand a chance.

The folding table was positioned slightly behind one armrest so Rick had to reach back to get what he wanted—a definite plus. P.J. evaluated that she could hide behind his massive chair and doctor his drink without being seen.

Rick sat there, his huge arms bulging on the armrests, and chuckled. On the flat screen that filled much of the west wall, Dwight dunked Jackie Boy’s head in the toilet and told him never to bother Shellie again.

P.J. had seen
Sin City
years ago and figured it was only halfway over. She hypothesized that she had about an hour before he would bother to get up, unless he had an unreliable bladder.

As if on cue, Rick reached back for the remote on the table. He wiped some sauce off of it with the tip of his napkin bib before freezing the movie on a headshot of Benecio del Toro. Then he got up, ran a hand through his dreads, stretched his arms, and rhythmically tapped the Jesus figures hanging from his neck.

P.J. was transfixed by his jewelry. All of it looked like it was made of real gold, all of it looked like it was encrusted with real diamonds, and all of it looked heavy. Dare she deviate from her routine and grab some bling?

P.J. looked at her empty duffel, felt the tablets and syringes in both breast pockets, and checked for her car keys in her jeans pocket while thinking how fun it would be to risk selling some gold on the street for quick cash. Of course, Darby would be dead set against it, but she was still so irritated that he was dating the blond cashier bimbo that she didn’t really care at this point. In fact, she felt like being contrary just to spite him.

Rick went to the east wall of the room and pushed on a door that led into a bathroom. Because the window that faced the backyard was open, she heard him take a leak and flush the toilet.

After Rick returned to his chair, plopped himself down, and resumed the movie, P.J. began to move stealthily toward the corner of the house, where a screened sliding glass door was ajar.

The screen was not latched. Gently, carefully, she slid it across its track and stepped inside onto a linoleum area suitable for wiping one’s shoes when coming in from out back, using light from the backyard lampposts in the evenings to see in the dimly lit room.

She bent down to remove the size nine men’s basketball shoes and the three pairs of athletic socks that secured them to her slim feet. Beyond the blank wall to her left, she could hear the movie.

P.J. had plenty of time.

The wall to the right was filled with empty shelving. Straight ahead, there was a wall filled with Lil Beef photos, a shrine to the man and his music.

That was all to be expected, given whose home she was in. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for one thing that left her stupefied.

She was standing in a room with no door.

For Caresse, going to the Madonna Plaza for her next
County Times
date beat the stuffing out of trying to find a parking space downtown during midday, evening, anytime.

The shopping center was across the street from the famous Madonna Inn, a San Luis Obispo landmark, equidistant between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Head 200 miles south for the land of fast cars and movie stars. Head 200 miles north to gaze at the Golden Gate Bridge.

The shopping center itself boasted a collection of clothing, shoe, and sporting goods stores. Adjacent to the stores sat Taco Bell and Applebee’s. Fortunately for her, it was the latter she was heading to for dinner at 7 p.m. that first Wednesday in February.

His name was Carl, and he was eight years older than she was, with dark hair and a mustache. Squeezed into the cramped restaurant foyer, he took her hand in both of his when she asked if he’d been waiting long. She looked into his eyes and felt a professional vibe, like she was meeting him for business. He said he worked for a real estate appraisal company in SLO, but he dreamt of making a living as a guitarist.

She was not fully present; her mind was on Chaz. She had dropped him off at her friend’s house for a sleepover and was missing him. She was only halfway through the number of dates she figured she needed for a good story. Aiming for six encounters, she was booked through Saturday and would write her article on Sunday.

Tonight, she was probably looking better than she felt. She had bothered to wear a dress, a blue and white floral affair with a wide skirt and capped sleeves. Applebee’s was packed and the Cal Poly crowd was having a good time. She loved the noisy atmosphere, colorful decor, and heaping plates of food. She hoped the surroundings would compensate for her lack of enthusiasm.

They ordered an appetizer plate that included mozzarella sticks, Buffalo wings, and potato skins, followed by heart-clogging helpings of shrimp Alfredo. Since Caresse was subdued, Carl stepped it up a bit and asked her about herself. She told him she was a mom, a
County Times
writer, and a Barbie magazine staff writer. Astonishingly, he picked Barbie as the topic
du jour
.

“How the heck did you get interested in Barbies?”

Caresse smiled and repositioned herself closer to the table. There was nothing offensive in asking a collector about their passion; it was non-controversial hobby talk. Like Todd, he was probably choosing that subject because he knew she would feel at home discussing it. Unlike Todd, however, there was no subtext to the chitchat, no smoldering chemistry, no hint of romance.

They sat on high stools at a round-topped table piled high with their feast.

“I was in New York at a wedding when I saw the very first Barbie book I’d ever seen. It was the history of Barbie’s first thirty years, and designers had created costumes for her. As I flipped through the pages and saw everything I’d inherited from my older sister, I said, ‘Hey, I still like this stuff.’ I was only nineteen and had stored my childhood playthings by then. I went back to my undergrad college in New York and found myself buying Barbies again. It was rather humiliating. I hid them in my desk because I didn’t know anyone else in college who bought dolls. I didn’t
think
there was necessarily anything wrong with me, but I felt the compulsion to keep buying the doll I loved as a child.”

She stopped, took a breath, and picked up a chicken wing dripping with hot sauce.

“Had you ever collected anything else before?”

“Never.”

“So you don’t collect anything and all of a sudden, Barbies? When you were a child, were you into Barbies a lot?”

She washed her bite of wing down with ice water. “Very much so. It’s hard to say Barbies meant more to me than to any other little girl. It wasn’t so much a matter of just dressing her up and admiring the way she looked. I got into creating situations and dramas, creating stories and falling into a world where everything was an adventure.”

Carl wiped his mustache and smiled. “Yeah. And since you’ve gotten involved in collecting, I’m going to assume you’ve found other people who share your passion?”

“Oh, sure.”

“How widespread is this?”

She thought about his question. “I would think there are probably half a million adult collectors in the United States and abroad, and what I think is primarily responsible for all of us networking the way we have is
Barbie International
Magazine. When it came out, it was well publicized, ’cause it came out in her thirtieth anniversary year and the
L.A. Times
covered its debut. Once I got my hands on it, I knew I could pair my love of writing with my love for Barbies. I became a staff writer, and I was on my way. Basically, what that magazine provides is a way for people to connect about conventions and Barbie clubs, or just make friends with the same interests. We’ve even got a Central Coast Barbie Club that meets once in a while.”

As long as he asked questions, she would talk. There was no way she was leaving before she finished her last forkful of creamy Alfredo.

“Is it a strong chapter?”

“Well, twenty-five members. I think that’s just about all we would want so we can meet comfortably at people’s homes.” She paused, took a breath. “Are you really interested in this?”

“Sure, why not?”

She frowned, realizing she should probably think of some questions involving real estate appraisals, but she had never owned a home and didn’t know squat about property values and assessments. He seemed to sense as much and continued to talk about Barbies.

“Is she still as popular today? Are kids still getting Barbies?”

The waitress came over and refilled their coffee cups, not interrupting, but making eye contact to see if they were doing all right. Caresse nodded and Carl gave her a broad grin.