Chihuahua Confidential (10 page)

“Step away, Geri!” said Pepe. He tried to nudge me backward. He had already run forward to inspect Jimmy G's find, then back to me.

I ignored him. Hadn't I already seen two dead bodies during our last case? I considered myself hardened. But I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I finally inched forward, with Pepe tucked firmly under my arm.

It was Jake, the Certified Animal Safety Representative, sprawled on the floor. His face was purple, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding. A choke chain was wrapped around his neck. I turned away, sickened.

About the same time, a few other crew members arrived on the scene, responding to Jimmy G's strangled shriek. Someone dialed 911. Someone went to get Rebecca. No one tried to resuscitate Jake, not even the EMTs when they arrived. It was quite clear to everyone that he was dead.

“Who was that guy?” Jimmy G asked as he sat on a chair, his hands on his belly, trying to calm his heaving stomach.

“Jake. I don't know his last name. He is, he
was
, the Certified Animal Safety Representative,” I said.

“Do you think he found Jimmy G's package?” he asked.

“Wow! There must be something really valuable in that package,” I said, “if you think people are getting murdered for it.”

Jimmy G put his forefinger up against his lips. “Keep it on the hush-hush, babe. Jimmy G didn't mention the package to the police. Not good for them to know Jimmy G's business.”

“Don't you think that's a mistake?” I said.

“Private dicks and the police don't mix,” said Jimmy G. “Like cats and dogs. Always been that way. Always will be.”

 

 

The same detectives who investigated Nigel's murder came back for this homicide: Sam Scott, the tall blond Nordic type, and his partner who looked like Kyra Sedgwick. This time, she was wearing a gray pencil skirt and a navy polka-dot blouse with a navy blue cardigan and a pencil tucked into her French twist.

Scott took charge of the crime scene and ordered everyone back, but people still milled around the edges of the yellow crime scene tape that had been strung up by one of the uniformed LAPD patrolmen who was first on the scene.

“Why would anybody want to kill an hombre who cared so much about the welfare of us
perros
?” asked Pepe.

Rebecca, who had been pacing back and forth, provided a possible answer to Pepe's question. “Somebody's trying to sabotage my show!”

“What makes you say that?” Scott asked, slipping underneath the crime scene tape and coming up to her, small notepad in hand.

“
Dos muertos,
” said Pepe, “could easily equal sabotage.”

“Isn't it obvious?” Rebecca told Scott. “What else could it be? First, Nigel St. Nigel and now Jake.”

“That is what I was saying,” said Pepe.

“Can you keep your dog quiet?” Scott told me. It was more of an order than a question.

“Shhhh!” I told my pooch. “You need to stop kibitzing.”

He looked up at me. “I fail to understand what an Israeli collective has to do with anything.”

“That's a
kibbutz
,” I told him. “Now be quiet. Do you want us to get kicked out of here?”

“I was only observing,” said Pepe. “Is that not what we private detectives do?”

“That's it!” shouted Scott, turning on me and Pepe. “Get back!”

“Fine by me,” said Pepe. “The smell of
los muertos
disagrees with my appetite—and it
is
getting on to dinnertime.”

“But nobody leaves,” the detective said. “I'll want to question each of you individually.”

The uniformed police separated us and told us not to talk to each other. There weren't many of us: me and Pepe and Jimmy G and Robyn from the costume shop. Two of the cameramen were also present, as were one of the grips and Rebecca. She was furious. Or else she concealed her fear beneath anger. She paced back and forth, muttering loudly to herself.

Just then there was a commotion at the door.

“I tell you, I have important information for the police!” It was the screechy voice of Miranda Skarbos. She pushed her way past the policeman on duty and stormed down the aisle. She was dressed in her usual gypsy Bohemian getup: a full black skirt with a ragged edge, a glittery sequined top, and a tight black satin jacket. A long red scarf was looped around her neck many times. Her wild, bushy gray hair streamed behind her. As she waved her bony hands in the air, the fringe on her scarf quivered.

Scott frowned. He motioned to one of the policemen who tried to stop Miranda, but she breezed right by him and headed for the scene of the crime.

“Who is this?” asked Scott.

“She's an animal psychic,” I said. “She's one of the judges on the show.”

“It happened here!” She strode dramatically over to the area where Jimmy G had found Jake's body.

“Of course she knows where he was found,” said Pepe. “It is obvious from the yellow crime scene tape.”

“Since when did you become a skeptic?” I asked.

“Since she gave us such a low score for our salsa,” Pepe replied.

“Ma'am, stay back behind the tape,” Scott said.

“I received a message telling me I needed to return. There is a traumatized spirit here, calling out to me.” Miranda looked around, her gray frizzled hair flying. “I can see the fear she felt, the loud voices, the frenzy of the killer, the heated words, angry words!”

The two detectives looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

“Ma'am, the victim is a man!” said Scott.

“I'm not talking about him!” Miranda dismissed the corpse with a wave of her hand. “I'm talking about the dog. She was scared. This man came to her rescue. And then she had to watch as her persecutor choked him to death.”

“Dog? There were no dogs in the vicinity, were there?” Scott asked.

Everyone looked around. But Pepe was the only dog in sight.

“He's been with me all night,” I said.

“This is a female dog,” said Miranda, closing her eyes and swaying back and forth. “A small dog. A precious little soul, a furry little love bomb.”

“Siren Song!” said Pepe with a sigh. Then he began to wriggle in my arms. “Put me down, Geri!” he commanded.

I did as he asked, and he dashed over to the crime scene, where he began sniffing around, his head moving back and forth.

“Get that dog out of here!” Scott said. “He's contaminating the crime scene.”

“Pepe, come!” I said, but my command sounded feeble, and Pepe ignored me. I tried again, “Pepe, come!” then remembered what Felix had taught me in the one training session I had: “Never deliver the same command twice. Wait until he performs the command, then reward him.”

I waited but still he did not respond. Finally, as one of the detectives was about to scoop him up, he came running back to me.

“It
was
Siren Song,” he said. “She was frightened, as this woman says. We must find her!”

Miranda was going on. “She is surrounded by darkness. She is confused, unable to move. She's so frightened. She is begging us to rescue her.”

“I will rescue you, Siren Song,” Pepe declared.

“Could it be Siren Song?” I asked Rebecca.

She looked worried. “She should be with Luis,” she said. She pulled out her cell phone and hit one button. Evidently, Luis answered quickly. There was a long pause; then Rebecca frowned. “You've got to be kidding me. Right?” Another pause. “Ridiculous!” she snapped. “I'll deal with this later!” Then she clicked her phone shut and turned to Scott. “My dog is back at the hotel room and she's fine. In fact, she's sleeping. My assistant just went and checked on her.”

“Get this woman out of here!” Scott commanded, gesturing at Miranda.

I felt sorry for her as she was hustled away, protesting that she had been sent to deliver a message from this troubled dog.

 

 

The police took me and Pepe and Jimmy G to Parker Center to ask us more questions, since we had been the ones to find the body. I didn't have much to add. When they asked me if I knew anyone who would want to harm Jake, Pepe suggested I tell them about the confrontation between Ted and Jake, but I didn't want to say anything until I had a chance to talk to Ted.

Pepe wanted to rush back to the hotel and check on Siren Song as soon as we were released, but Jimmy G was hungry and insisted on getting something to eat. I agreed. Even Pepe was persuaded when Jimmy G mentioned Pink's.

“I have been there many times with Caprice,” he said. “Usually late at night after some serious partying. It is one of the best places in L.A. to see and be seen.”

Pink's looked just like any other hot dog stand, except for the long lines of people standing outside, people of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. Young women in skimpy sequin dresses and high heels giggling as they tried to cram the foot-long dogs into their mouths. And also some guys on Harleys with gray beards and leather jackets.

Jimmy G was impressed. While I read down the menu trying to find something without meat, he saw some guy walking away with what looked like a chili dog on steroids. It must have weighed a couple of pounds and was piled high with everything from guacamole and sour cream to heaps of shredded cheddar, onions, and fresh salsa.

“That's for me!” said Jimmy G.

I finally ordered a vegan dog I found at the bottom of the menu. Pepe wanted a plain hot dog and bun. “I am a purist,” he said. “And when speaking to me, please refer to it as a frankfurter,
por favor
. I do not eat
dogs,
hot or otherwise.”

We got our food and found a seat at one of the many picnic tables set up around the place. I offered to cut up Pepe's frankfurter for him, but he declined, saying, “
Gracias
, but I have sharp teeth. Besides, I like to hear it squeak when I bite into it.”

“So,” I asked my boss as he shoveled huge mouthfuls of chili dog into his face, “what happened? You were at Rodney's house and ran into the police?”

“They ran into Jimmy G is more like it,” he said, a stray chili bean rolling down his chin and back onto his plate. “Damned cops! Barely got into the house and found the place trashed, like somebody had torn it all up searching for something. Which is what Jimmy G was doing, but, of course, no Rodney or my package anywhere to be found.”

“Somebody had tossed the
casa
?” asked Pepe.

“The house had been ransacked?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Jimmy G. “Then in come the flatfeet like gangbusters, and it's ‘Freeze!' and ‘Hands up!' and ‘On your knees!' and they're slapping on the handcuffs and trying to make Jimmy G's face part of the carpet.”

“Gee,” I said.

“Gee isn't the half of it,” said my boss.

“They must have thought you were a burglar, huh?” I asked. “So what happened?”

“They took Jimmy G down to the station and grilled him, like he said. Hours and hours but they never broke your boss. Told them Jimmy G was a PI working a case. Went to that particular address. Found the gate open and the front door open and went in to look around. What could they say?” He took another big bite of his chili dog and chewed it thoughtfully. “No evidence to link Jimmy G to any crime.”

“So they let you go.”

“They said Jimmy G is a person of interest and shouldn't leave town,” he said. “They also said that Washington private eyes don't have reprisossity . . .” He stopped and tried again. “Recipe-osse?”

“You mean reciprocity?”

“Something like that. Anyway it means Jimmy G can't investigate while here.” He wolfed down the last of his chili dog and added, “Something fishy going on with all this, that's all Jimmy G knows.”

“Did the cops have any information about Rodney?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “That's what had them worried. Guy disappeared. No sign of him. Did he clean out the place and make off with a bunch of items that didn't belong to him? Or was he the victim of a crime?”

“Still,” said Pepe, “it is very hinky.”

“
Hinky
, huh?” I said to my dog. “When did you ever start using a word like
hinky
?”

“Since we have been working with our boss, Jimmy G,” he told me matter-of-factly. “Is the word not appropriate to the situation?”

I couldn't deny that the word fit, so I asked Jimmy G, “What are you going to do now?”

“Going to find Jimmy G's damn package,” he said. “That's what!”

“And that won't be a problem?”

“Not really. Jimmy G's not working for a client. Just following up on a package sent to Jimmy G himself. The Jimmy G Detective Agency is not involved in anything else—officially, at least.”

“The Jimmy G Detective Agency?” I asked. “I thought we were the Gerrard Detective Agency.”

“Decided to change the name,” said my boss. “Put the main attraction front and center, which is
me,
Jimmy G.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Didn't Jimmy G tell you?”

“No, actually you didn't.”

“Well, consider yourself told. That reminds me.” He reached into his jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a rubber-banded stack of business cards. “New business cards. Designed them myself.”

I pulled one of the cards out and looked it over. It had T
HE
J
IMMY
G D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
across the top in bold, red letters. Then, in smaller letters, it read J
IMMY
G
ERRARD
, P
RIVATE
I
NVESTIGATOR
.

“Let me see,” Pepe told me. I pulled him up into my lap so he could look at the card. “Holy guacamole!” he said. “I like the smoking
pistola
on this new card.”

A smoking pistol was indeed incorporated into the design. Printed beside it was what I took for our new motto: W
E ALWAYS FIND THE SMOKING GUN!

“Clever, huh?” said Jimmy G with an ear-to-ear grin. “Jimmy G wrote the slogan himself.”

“Ask him, what if there is no gun used in a crime we are investigating?” said Pepe. “Would not this smoking gun logo then be inappropriate?”

I relayed Pepe's concern to my boss. He looked hurt.

“Hey,” he said, “the smoking gun thing is just a metaphor. Or a simile. Hell, I can never tell those two apart. Anyhow, take a gander at the other names on the card.”

I smiled when I saw my name: G
ERI
S
ULLIVAN
, A
SSOCIATE
. And right below that was P
EPE
S
ULLIVAN
, A
SSOCIATE
.

“You put Pepe's name on the card?”

“Do not complain, Geri,” Pepe told me. “I like it!”

“Jimmy G put your dog's name on it so it looks like we've got more troops in the field. The more the better when it comes to getting new clients.”

“I see,” I told him. “So Pepe and I are
associates
?”

“Yeah. You like that word,
associate
? Pretty classy, huh?”

I started to open my mouth to say that I'd rather have the term
private investigator
after my name, but Pepe stopped me short, saying, “Geri, do not complain. It is much better than Gal Friday, is it not?”

I thought a moment, then said, “Yes,” which Jimmy G took for an answer to his own question.

“Copacetic,” said my boss. “Now it's time to get to work.” He got up from the table, straightened out his sport coat, and slapped his hands together. “Jimmy G is going on the hunt for that package! I need to know everything you know about the package.”

I described it to him again. The shape, the duct tape, the weight, the way the address was written with a felt-tip pen on the brown wrapping paper.

“And you didn't see who delivered it?”

I shook my head. “But you must have an idea or you wouldn't have come down here,” I said.

“It's got to be Nacho,” he said, shaking his head.

“Nacho?”

“I told you, Geri,” said Pepe.

“Guy Jimmy G knew in the first Gulf War. We called him Nacho because he was always eating Nacho Cheese Doritos.”

“And you think he sent this package to you?” I asked. “What's in it?”

“Jimmy G cannot tell you that. Classified information.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, why don't you just call this guy up and talk to him?”

“Jimmy G cannot do that. Jimmy G and Nacho had a falling out a few years ago.”

“Really? Why?”

“Again, Jimmy G cannot reveal that. Unsavory. Not a story for the ladies. But Jimmy G lost touch with Nacho as a result.”

“Well, you are a PI, aren't you?”

Jimmy G nodded.

“So find him!”

Jimmy G laughed. One thing I could say about my boss, he was always good-tempered.

“You're right, doll! Jimmy G will go looking for Nacho! Most logical thing in the world. Don't know why Jimmy G didn't think of it.”