Eats to Die For! (9 page)

The rest of her resume consisted of work at something called the Star Stage Center Theatre in Hollywood. Her photo made her look about nineteen, which I assumed was what one's photo had to do these days for one to get work. The Regina I'd met had already crested Mt. Thirty.

Fortunately, there was a number attached to the resume, which I tried calling.

And got a machine.

“Hi, Regina,” I said after waiting for the tone, “this is Dave Beauchamp. We met a day or so back at Burger Heaven. I'm the private investigator. I found your number online and I'd like to ask you a couple more questions if I could when you have a moment. Could you please give me a call back?”

I left my number and hung up, wondering if I would really ever hear from her, given that she had acted like someone was stalking her during our first encounter.

I hoped my message had sounded more professional than creepy.

Why not both
? Peter Lorre asked innocently inside my head.

Great.

I was also wondering if I should have given her my cell number instead of my office number. I could always call back and…naw. That
would
be creepy. I'd wait to hear from her tomorrow.

Packing up my laptop, I switched off the lights and headed out. What I really hoped was not so much that Regina would call back as that Louie Sandoval would simply turn up safe and sound, wondering why everyone was so stressed over her absence.

Was that really too much to ask?

Yes
, someone said inside my head, but I didn't catch who it was.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, there was a knock on my apartment door a little after seven-thirty.

Fortunately I was already up and clean and dressed and ready to greet the day. I'm not always at a little after seven-thirty, unless there is something to get up for, but I had awakened very early, despite not having slept all that well, largely due to an extremely realistic dream in which I was bitten in the leg by Lassie. I woke up wondering if Robert Mitchum had put her up to it.

The knock came again, more insistent this time, and while I hoped it would turn out to be Louie, I figured it was more likely either the building manager or a neighbor, given the time. Worst case scenario was that it would be some kind of salesman that someone else had let into the building, who was now going door-to-door.

As soon as I opened the door I realized that I was wrong. This was much worse. I was staring into the cold, disdainful eyes of LAPD Detective Hector Mendoza.

“Remember me?” he asked with a smile that was like the last thing a hamster sees in a snake cage.

I was not likely to forget Hector Mendoza, whom I had not seen since the resolution of my last case, and was hoping to never see again.

You see, Mendoza hated me. I don't mean disliked me or thought I was an idiot, I mean he
hated
me; the kind of hate no amount of therapy could fix. It was the sort of hate Chief Inspector Dreyfus holds for Inspector Clouseau in the
Pink Panther
movies, only nowhere near as amusing.

I had come to find out that he had a free-flowing hatred for all private investigators since his mother's affair with one had broken up his parents' marriage when he was young. And since I was the only P.I. with whom he had actually associated, he took all of his generalized, abstract hatred for the breed and focused it like a laser beam exclusively on me.

Well, that and the fact that the guilty party in said last case had kicked him in the crotch so violently during an interrogation that he had to undergo surgery to repair his
cojones
.

“Why are you here, Hector?” I asked.

“Official business.”

He walked past me and into the apartment, making certain that he managed to brush me out of the way in the process.

“C'mon in,” I said.

It was then that I noticed someone else was standing in the hall, a young blonde kid, dressed in a suit and tie. He flashed me a badge, which identified him as Officer Bruce Willford, after which he walked inside as well.

“Where's Colfax?” I asked. Detective Dane Colfax had been Mendoza's partner during our last waltz. He was older, fairer, a little bit stoic, but a policeman who did not come with enough baggage to fill a rail car. I don't think I'm exaggerating that without Colfax to stop him at various moments, Mendoza would have either done serious bodily damage to my person, just for the hell of it, or would have railroaded me into prison for the very murder I had managed to solve.

I could only hope that Officer Bruce Willford had an similar leavening effect on him, but I doubted it.

“You want to know where Colfax is?” Mendoza sneered.

“I did ask that, yes.”

“Transferred downtown to Robbery/Homicide. I wanted to go too, but you know what? My injury kept me back.”

“Wow, sorry, Hector. That must be a real crotch for you to bear.”

I meant to say
cross
, of course, though I doubted I would have been able to convince Hector Mendoza of that were I given a hundred years to try. He spun around and took a step toward me, only to have Officer Willford quickly step in between us.

“Maybe we should tell Mr. Beauchamp why we're here,” the younger cop said, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I thought I caught Willford struggling to stifle a laugh.

It was a ray of unexpected sunshine inside my apartment.

“Fine,” Mendoza said, stepping close enough to allow me to see the patches he missed while shaving. “Your girlfriend is dead.”

“My girlfriend?”
Jeez, please don't be talking about Louie Sandoval
! “What girlfriend is that?” I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my voice.

“Regina Fontaine.”

“Regina? Good god. Hector, I'm shocked, but Regina was hardly my girlfriend. I'd met her only once.”

“But your voice was on her answering machine, and don't call me Hector. It's
Sergeant
, asshole.”

“Sergeant Asshole
,” Robert Mitchum chimed in,
I remember reading a script by that name back in the fifties.
You're a lot of help, Mitch.

“You're right, I did leave a message on Regina's machine last night. I wanted to talk to her in reference to a pending case.”

“What pending case?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential.”

“Bullshit. What pending case?”

“Sergeant,” Detective Willford broke in, “maybe if I were to speak privately with Mr. Beauchamp—”

“Stay out of this.” Mendoza stepped so close I had to lean backwards. “What… pending…case?”

“You know, Hector, a private investigator can't betray a client's confidence,” I said. “I'd have thought you would have learned that from your mother.”

Had that been out loud
? my mind screamed a second later. Had I really thrown a
Yo mama!
into the face of a policeman who already wanted to kill me, and would probably get away with it if he did? What was wrong with me?

Maybe you're getting sick and tired of being pushed around
, Bogie said forcefully. Great; that will be a great comfort as my head is being beaten into cranberry sauce.

I swear at that moment Mendoza's eyes turned crimson, like a horror movie special effect. He was not simply close now, he was doing that chest-bump intimidation move where you try and force the other guy to back up.

He didn't have to force. I backed up.

“I should take you in right now,” he growled.

“On what grounds?” Willford was asking.

Mendoza's fists clenched. “Resisting arrest.”

“But sergeant—”

“Fine, take me in,” I told Mendoza. “I have a feeling I'd be safer down at the station than I am here with you. And while I'm there I can tell your captain what a charming and pleasant conversation we've been having.”

I genuinely thought Mendoza was going to hit me, maybe even pull out his gun and shoot me. But Detective Willford once more stepped in and deflected the pending violence.

“Maybe you should tell us about your relationship with the dead woman, sir,” he said in an even voice.

I used the opportunity to turn and move away from Mendoza without making it look like a retreat.

“Well, like I told you, there really wasn't any relationship. I only met her one time. I barely knew her at all.”

“Then why did you have her phone number?” Mendez snapped.

“I found it online. She was a dancer, and her resume and contact info is all there for anyone to see. I didn't even know her last name until I found it on the Net. How did she die, detective? I'm assuming foul play is suspected or else you two wouldn't be investigating.”

“Yeah, foul play is suspected,” Mendoza said in a sing-song, mocking voice. “And I've got an assumption of my own.”

“Actually, Mr. Beauchamp, it's going to take an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death,” Willford broke in. Either he was naturally polite or I was the birdie in a game of Good Cop/Bad Cop.

“I see. So she wasn't shot, stabbed or strangled.”

The two detectives exchanged a glance, and Willford asked, “How did you know she wasn't shot, stabbed or strangled?”

“How else?” Mendoza said. “Because he did it. He's just confessed.”

I directed my response to the younger, more reasonable detective.

“I haven't confessed to anything except having a sense of logic. Had Regina been shot or stabbed or strangled it would have been obvious, you would have seen it right away. An autopsy wouldn't be required to determine cause of death.”

“Unless she'd been all three,” Mendoza spat, “and we'd need the autopsy to find out which of those assaults proved fatal. Ever think of that, Einstein?”

I hadn't.

“Was that the case?” I asked.

Since neither answered immediately, I had to assume that it was not.

Willford broke the silence by asking, “Care to tell us where you met the victim, sir?”

“It was at a Burger Heaven, the one they just opened on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. She'd been hired to choreograph a bunch of people playing hamburger ingredients out on the street.”

“You want to give met that again?” Mendoza said.

I explained the restaurant promotion as best I could, but even as I heard my words coming back it sounded pretty dopey.

Finally, I said: “Look, you know those people you see on street corners who flip around a big arrow-shaped sign to announce the opening of a new business? Sometimes they're even in costume? Well, it was a little like that, except instead of spinning signs, they were dressed up like burger patties and buns and lettuce and onions and tomatoes. Regina was the one in charge of their act.”

Mendoza smiled. “So, realizing that playing a vegetable comes naturally to you, you went to see her for a job, huh?”

“I've already told you, I wanted to talk to her for a—”

“Pending case,” Mendoza interrupted. “What kind of case?”

“And as I've also already told you, I can't—”

“
What is it
?” he thundered, lunging at me, and even Willford jumped.

“Missing person,” I squeaked, fighting to keep my legs from buckling.

Mendoza backed off. “There. Was that so hard? Who's missing?”

“A mutual friend.”

“Give me a name, Beauchamp.”

“I can't. She's also a client.”

Mendoza exhaled like a dragon whose pilot light had gone out, which allowed Willford to jump in.

“Did Ms. Fontaine seem troubled to you when you spoke to her?” he asked.

“Troubled? Well, she seemed nervous. She was smoking a cigarette, and acted like I had caught her doing something naughty on the playground and was going to tell the teacher.”

“Sure it was tobacco?” Mendoza asked.

“Positive,” I said. “Maybe I don't look like it, but I have been around long enough to know what marijuana smells like.”

You're right, you don't look like it
, Mitchum said, and I knew better than to argue with him on the subject of marijuana.

There was a tense, half-minute lull in the interrogation, after which Willford asked: “Mr. Beauchamp, have you told us everything you know?”

“Well…maybe not.”

“So you've finally decided to come clean,” Mendoza said. “Okay, Beauchamp, what are you holding back?”

“For one thing, I know that
Citizen Kane
was not Orson Welles' first Hollywood movie.
Swiss Family Robinson
in 1940 was.”

Glancing over to Willford, I added: “Well, you did say
everything
.”

Mendoza turned a shade of purple that I did not think was possible in a human being.

“That's it,” he growled. “Turn around.”

“So you can shoot me in the back in my own home?”

“Turn…the fuck…around.”

I turned around, waiting for the cold feel of the handcuffs.

“Sergeant—” Willford began, but Mendoza cut him off with a snarl. “Sir,” the young detective tried again, “Are you certain we have cause for this?”

I had to give the guy credit. He had a spine.

“Are you counteracting my authority,
officer
?” Mendoza countered.

“Look, fellows, there's no need to fight on my account. I have told you everything I know about Regina Fontaine. I'm very sorry to hear that she's dead, but I had no involvement with that whatsoever outside of that one chance meeting. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Can I turn back around now?”

Mendoza violently spun me around and shoved a finger in my face. “This isn't over, asshole,” he said, then pushed me out of the way so he could march out of my apartment.

“Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp,” Officer Willford said on his way out.