D is for Drunk (6 page)

She winced and answered him in a quiet voice, hoping he would follow suit. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Can I take a picture with you?”

She caught herself before she glanced back into the room. Aidan might come out at any second, and catch her. He probably make some crack about her incompetence as a detective. “I’m running a little late.”

“It’ll only take a second.” He slung one arm around her shoulder, held up his camera, and snapped.

“Give my best to Bridget!” She tried to walk away, but he stepped in front of her, a goofy smile on his face.

“Let me check to see if the picture came out,” he said. “Bridget will never let me live it down.”

She looked longingly at the front door. She’d have to dodge around him to leave. That definitely felt rude, but Aidan might be coming out any time now. She walked slowly around him, like she imagined someone would walk around a wild animal, trying not to spook him.

“Perfect!” he said. “Want to see?”

He thrust the phone right under her nose. He looked fine, but she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. That seemed pretty accurate.

“Great! Gotta run!” She smiled apologetically and jogged past him to the door, not stopping until she was safely back in Aidan’s Porsche.

A quick peek over her shoulder told her Magnifying Glass Guy hadn’t followed her into the parking lot, which was good. Some fans were hard to shake off.

Aidan hadn’t caught her. Success.

What had she learned?

1. Aidan didn’t use any of the counter surveillance techniques he’d been drilling into her.
   
2. Aidan and Brendan had helped somebody with a chimpanzee, which was pretty cool.
   
3. She needed to start cultivating sources at key locations—water, DMV, and who knew where else. This was a long term project.
   

She started googling Bobbo the chimpanzee. The Malibu papers had done a long piece on him, which she skimmed, jiggling her leg and glancing over her shoulder every five seconds for Aidan. Bobbo had been a show business ape, appearing in commercials and a short-lived cable TV show called
Clown Times
she had never heard of. But then—

A knock on her window made her jump.

Aidan walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. “What were you looking at?”

“Monkey porn.” She clicked the button to make her phone screen go dark.

Aidan stared at her with his mouth open. “What?”

“Money forms,” she said slowly. “IRS stuff. Why?”

Aidan snapped his mouth closed. He must have seen the pictures of the chimpanzees.

“Did you get what you needed at the water company?” She enjoyed seeing him discombobulated. It was a good look for him. Better than patronizing.

“I...well...yes.” He glanced at the clock on the dash. Noon. “We’d better hustle, or we’ll be late for the staff meeting.”

Brendan had their weekly staff meeting at the Marmalade Cafe, and he was a stickler about punctuality. “I could get us there on time.”

“I want to get there alive.”

On the way to the restaurant she used her phone to look up details about Mr. Grigoryan and his vineyard. She considered looking up more about Bobbo, but thought Aidan might freak out and crash if he saw more chimps on her phone. He drove faster than usual. Apparently the key to getting him to speed up was to talk about monkey porn and then deny it. Who knew?

CHAPTER 8

B
rendan looked at his watch as soon as he caught sight of them. That meant they were late, no matter what time they’d arrived. If Aidan had let her drive from the water company, they would have been early. Or if she’d talked to Ginger. She ought to suggest that as an efficiency strategy for the office—Sofia gets to do more fun stuff because she is faster. That wasn’t going to fly. She needed a better spin.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Brendan said.

“Sorry,” Sofia said automatically.

Aidan looked at his phone. “We’re only three minutes late.”

“That’s a long time,” said Sofia. “Ask a trapeze artist.”

Aidan glared at her.

The waitress hurried over. She was new, about Sofia’s age, with curly red hair and freckles. She had pretty brown eyes, and a nice smile she turned up to full when she looked at Aidan.

“I’ll take a roasted beet salad and a lemonade,” Sofia said.

“Not ordering the peach iced tea?” Aidan asked. “You love it so.”

That had been what she had drunk too much of on the day of the unfortunate peeing incident at Big Rock Rehab. “Maybe you ought to have some coffee. I hear it makes your sperm swim faster.”

Brendan stared at her. She couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud. But she was getting pretty sick of Aidan teasing her about that particular topic.

The waitress turned to Brendan. “And for you?”

“Chicken pot pie with salad and,” he hesitated, then sighed, “a coffee.”

“For you, sir?” she asked Aidan.

“What would you recommend?” he asked.

She giggled. “The three cheese ravioli is good.”

“I’ll have whatever you say. And also coffee.”

“My name’s Taylor, if you need anything else.” She didn’t write anything on her order pad, just sashayed off, getting some good swing on her hips.

Brendan cleared his throat. “Let’s start with old cases.”

“I found Mrs. Thanjan’s cat, Lakshmi,” Sofia said.

“What steps did you take?”

She began her recitation. “I got a photo and made up some posters, plastered them on every light pole within a three block radius, canvassed house to house with a picture of the cat, but didn’t turn up anything. Then I borrowed a bloodhound from a guy I used to work with, and he trailed her to Mrs. Thanjan’s crawl space. She’d been hit by a car.”

Brendan sighed. “How’d Mrs. Thanjan take the news? Sometimes they don’t pay if the cat is dead.”

“She wasn’t dead,” Sofia hurried to say. “She’d been hit by a car and had a broken hip, but I slid a piece of cardboard under her and got her out. We took her to the vet, and she’s going to be fine in a month or so. The vet says she probably won’t even have a limp.”

“Nice work,” Brendan said.

She smiled. She was proud of herself, actually. The crawl space had been low and full of spiders, cobwebs, and a nasty dank smell. She’d had to belly crawl with the flashlight in her teeth, but it was all worth it when she got to the wounded cat and knew she had saved her life. “Lakshmi has many happy years ahead of her, the vet said. Years.”

“Lost cats are hard to find,” Aidan said, grudgingly. “Good idea with the bloodhound.”

“Next time, I’ll start with that,” Sofia said.

Taylor came back with Sofia’s lemonade and the coffeepot. She reached across Aidan to pour his coffee, her breasts practically brushing his hair.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “Taylor.”

Sofia took a sip of her lemonade. Not as good as the iced tea, but it hadn’t betrayed her yet either.

“Aidan, any progress on Mrs. Eden?” Brendan asked.

“She’s not going to like it,” Aidan said.

“And?” Brendan prompted.

The drinks arrived, and Aidan waited for the waitress to leave before answering. She flashed him a flirtatious smile, and Sofia noticed she’d written a phone number on the underside of his napkin.

“You ought to call her,” Sofia said. “She’s pretty, she’s seems nice, and she’s clearly into you.”

“I could never do that.” Aidan looked shocked. “How can I calculate our compatibility? I don’t know enough about her.”

“That’s what the call would be for. To find out,” Sofia said.

“Sofia’s got a good point.” Brendan took a sip of coffee. “But let’s get back to work. The Eden case.”

“Mr. Eden has definitely left the garden. I have incriminating photos of him with three different women—a stripper, a hooker, and his secretary. At his age, you have to admire the stamina.”

“He’s not that old,” said Brendan.

Mr. Eden was about Brendan’s age, if she remembered correctly.

“Finish up your report, then call Mrs. Eden and have her come in so I can deliver the information to her personally. We don’t want to tell her over the phone,” Brendan continued.

She was glad he was the one who had to tell Mrs. Eden. She’d hate to have to deliver that kind of news, but she supposed one of these days she’d have to.

“Which brings us to the only new case: Grigoryan vs. Befort,” Aidan said.

“Grigoryan vs. the missing water,” Brendan said. “Don’t make any assumptions.”

She bit her cheek to keep from laughing. “Sounds like good advice.”

“Did you find out anything at the water company?” Brendan asked.

“Grigoryan’s bills are accurate. His usage has gone up. The water company sent out a meter reader to verify.” Aidan pulled a few sheets of paper out of his yellow folder and handed them to Brendan. “Then I checked his neighbors’ bills. The lots are big up there, about twenty acres each. Based on the position of the lots, there are only three people who could be using that water. Number one is Mr. Narek Grigoryan himself. We need to look at his property—see if there’s a broken irrigation pipe, check his toilets and sinks. Maybe the water is leaking out somewhere. That’s the water company’s theory. If he’s not using or losing it, number two is Mr. Marcel Befort. He owns the vineyard next to Grigoryan. His water usage is also up slightly, and it’s pretty similar to Grigoryan’s. No spikes or drops, except a short one four months ago. Ginger said it was about what you’d see if someone filled a swimming pool, which Befort has. So, if he’s stealing the water, he’s using it for something new or dumping it out of spite.”

“We can’t rule that out,” Brendan said. “Neighbor disputes are often spiteful.”

Taylor arrived with their plates and another smile for Aidan. She was cute. He ought to call her. But Sofia didn’t say anything else. This was a business meeting after all.

“Candidate number three is Mr. Rick Pankhurst,” Aidan said. “His usage has gone up slightly over the last six months, but not by the amount Grigoryan is losing.”

Brendan wiped his mouth. “Not much to go on there.”

Sofia piped up. “I did some Internet research on the Grigoryans and their neighbors on the way here.”

“Good initiative,” said Brendan. “Anything interesting?”

“The two vineyard owners used to be good friends. According to old issues of
The Malibu Times
, the two wineries used to have dual tasting events. They promoted each other’s wines online and in interviews, talking about different kinds of wine traditions—Armenian versus French. I also found some old pictures out there of Mr. and Mrs. Grigoryan and Mr. and Mrs. Befort together at charity events.” She took another sip of lemonade. “But about six months ago, something happened. The stuff online changed. Mr. Befort started trashing Grigoryan Vineyards in the press, and Mr. Grigoryan gave as good as he got. Armenian wine is for shepherds on one side, French wine is overpriced swill on the other.”

Brendan was about halfway through his pot pie. “Your timeline tallies with what I found out from a guy I know on the force. The cops have been called out a couple of times starting about six months ago. About four months ago, someone filled Mr. Grigoryan’s Mercedes convertible with horse manure.”

Aidan laughed. “That makes a point.”

She remembered how he had stressed what a nice car he had. That must have been why someone had targeted it—they knew how much he treasured it and wanted to get even. That seemed personal—a neighbor, his wife, maybe somebody’s girlfriend or boyfriend on the side.

“In the police report, Grigoryan claimed the manure came from his neighbor’s horse. Mr. Befort denied it, and there wasn’t much to be done. No surveillance footage to go on, and the police weren’t interested in spending a lot of effort on what was essentially a vandalism charge, or maybe a prank. In the report, Mr. Befort said someone had dropped a bucket of dog poop into his pool. He had to have it drained and refilled about four months ago.”

“It explains the spike in Befort’s water usage,” Aidan said. “The two of them are flinging shit at each other like monkeys.”

“Language,” Brendan said.

She thought it was funny that Brendan, who had worked for years as a cop in Los Angeles amongst some presumably pretty foul-mouthed people, was so anti-swearing.

“So, what’s next?” she asked.

“I referred Mr. Grigoryan to a security specialist I know. He’ll make sure there aren’t any more gaps in the surveillance cameras, so if anyone tries anything again, we’ll have video evidence.”

“You put poop in my pool, I put poop in your car?” Aidan ate his last ravioli. “That sounds like a great viral video. I bet Mr. Grigoryan would love it.”

“I had a long talk with Mr. Grigoryan when I told him we were taking the case, tried to pour oil on the waters, and I’d thank you not to get him riled up again,” Brendan said.

“Oil on the waters?” Sofia asked.

“It’s an expression. It means to calm things down,” Brendan said.

“Or it means you have a lake of burning water.” Aidan grinned.

Her phone buzzed. She had a text. She left the phone in her bag. No reading texts during meetings—that was the rule. But it made her brain itch not to look at it.

“Anyway,” Brendan leaned forward. “I’d like you two to go out to Grigoryan Vineyards, see if you can find a water leak. A leak is the best resolution we can hope for.”

Her phone buzzed again. Another text.

“You can look at that if you need to.” Brendan raised his hand to signal for the check. “Meeting’s over.”

She pulled out her phone. Two texts from Emily. Two pictures of Jaxon. In the first one, he looked hot in cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a red cowboy shirt. Right next to him was a giant black horse. In the other photo he was shirtless and standing balanced on the back of a horse. He looked better out of his wetsuit. The show might be a very fun evening indeed.

Looking forward to the show!
Emily had written.

“He looks like a porn star,” Aidan said.