Naked Addiction (21 page)

“Where’d you get this shot?” Goode asked.

“I asked her for one of herself before I left her apartment Saturday afternoon. It was taken in Malibu.”

“By whom?”

Seth shook his head and frowned. “How the hell should I know? What does that have to do with Keith’s murder? She got it out of a shoebox in the closet. Jesus.” Seth breathed out a long sigh. He shook his head and looked up at Goode, squinting. “He was my best friend, man, my best friend. How could you possibly think I could kill him?”

Goode thought Seth was either a really good actor, or he didn’t kill his friend. And since Paul was in the hospital when Keith was shot, he couldn’t have done it either. Goode wondered if the bartender could be as innocent as he claimed. So far, no one had found a gun at the bar.

“Seth, why don’t you just answer my questions? No one is accusing you of anything. Yet. If you have an alibi, there’s no problem. What time did you get home?”

“Fine. Whatever. I got back about ten thirty and this girl I was seeing briefly was sitting outside in her car, waiting for me. She insisted on coming in. I told her to leave, and she threw one of her usual hysterical fits. Then, she tried to seduce me. As you can see, it didn’t work.”

“I assume you mean Clover Ziegler,” Goode said.

“That’s the one.”

“Do you know Maureen Goode?”

“Why, she your wife or something?”

Goode felt his hackles rise again. “I’m the one asking questions here. Do you know her?”

Seth raised his eyebrows nonchalantly. “Vaguely. She dated Keith for a while. You guys must not be that close, huh? You divorced?”

Goode really wanted to belt the guy. “She’s my sister, all right? Have you seen her at all this week?”

“Oh. . . .No, I haven’t. Why, you think I killed her, too?” Seth asked sarcastically as he got up and started pacing again. “Look. This is all just too fucking weird.”

Goode didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “I never said Maureen was dead,” he snapped. “You know something I don’t?”

Seth scratched the back of his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m going to have a drink. . . . if that’s all right with you.”

Goode didn’t like Seth’s tone, but it proved his questions were getting to him. He hoped the alcohol would loosen him up so he would slip up. “You going to answer my question, or what?”

“No, I don’t know something you don’t,” Seth said, opening a cabinet door in the living room to reveal several rows of crystal decanters and bottles of expensive liquors that stood at attention like uniformed soldiers at a party. “I only met your sister once. She’s a little on the wild side.”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk,” Goode said.

Seth poured some amber liquid into a tumbler of ice. Whiskey was Goode’s guess. The noise of the ice crackling rang out like a shot. Without carpets, the room was an echo chamber.

“Want some?” Seth asked.

“No, thanks. I’ll just take a look around.” Goode slapped the warrant on the coffee table, but Seth barely glanced at it.

“You won’t find any guns here,” Seth said, taking a healthy sip of his drink.

“Actually, I’m looking for drugs. Large quantities of coke and meth. But now that you mention weapons, I’ll look for those too. Why don’t you make it easy and tell me where everything is and maybe I’ll ask the DA not to go as hard on you. Maybe he’ll charge you with conspiracy to commit murder instead of murder one. Unless, of course, it was a solo job and then I can’t help you.”

Seth’s face went tight. “You can’t pin the murders on me and you won’t find any drugs here,” he said.

“So you’re telling me you weren’t selling drugs with Jack O’Mallory at the Pumphouse?”

Seth grimaced. “Who told you that?”

“O’Mallory is down at the station right now, giving his statement about your little drug operation. No wonder you have so many nice things. I understand business is booming.”

Seth stared at him blankly. He was good. “Yeah, well, he’s lying,” Seth said. “My business is growing, but it’s real estate. Look around as much as you want. You won’t find any drugs here. I’m clean. That bartender has more than one screw loose. Why don’t ask him about his record? I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Keith had something going. Maybe they had a fight and that’s why my best friend is dead.”

Seth sat in the chair again, his legs spread wide apart. He sipped from the glass and avoided Goode’s eyes.

Is he strategizing how to kill me and get away with it? Or worrying that I’m going to find his stash?

Goode stood directly in front of Seth, which gave him a perfect view of the perfect part in Seth’s perfect hair. “Well, since we have him in custody, it’ll be pretty easy to ask him about that,” he said, walking casually over to the Picasso so he could stand behind Seth and throw him off balance. “So, tell me, how do I get under your house?”

“Under the house?” snarled Seth, who had to crane around to respond. “What do you want under there? Nothing there but some pipes, mildew, and probably a whole lot of mud. The sump pump doesn’t work very well and, as you know, it just rained last week and again tonight.”

Goode turned around and counted to ten. “So, I repeat,” he said, enunciating every word. “How do I get under your house?”

Seth was saved by the doorbell, but not for long. “I’ll get it. Don’t move,” Goode said, pointing at him.

His hand on his gun, Goode peered through the peephole. It was Rogers. Goode opened the door. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said under his breath, motioning a clearly unhappy Rogers into the foyer.

“What the hell are you doing, going in without me again?” Rogers hissed. He was always a stickler for procedure. But this was not the time for that conversation.

“Just relax, everything is going according to plan,” Goode whispered. “Did you bring Rocky?”

Rogers nodded towards his car. Rocky was not only good at sniffing out drugs, he was also renowned for biting perps on the run.

“Here’s the deal,” Goode told him. “I bet you ten bucks we find coke and meth somewhere, like maybe under the house. I hear there’s a little mud down there. Glad you’re dressed for it.”

Rogers was wearing a camel hair coat with a shirt and tie. “Ver-ry funny. You’re the one in jeans. Why can’t you go under?”

“‘Cause Rocky knows you better, and I’m in the middle of an interrogation. I don’t want to lose my momentum. I’ve got some work clothes in my van,” he said, handing Rogers his keys. “See what you can find and if you hear me stomp on the floor, get up here quick.”

Goode could talk to Rogers like that because they went way back, all the way to La Jolla Elementary School. When Goode was in sixth grade and Rogers was in fourth, Goode kicked his ass in dodgeball and after the game he kicked it some more. They’d been friends ever since.

“All right. I can’t believe I finally have a night off with my wife and you call me to go mud wrestling. Then you don’t even wait for me to go in.”

“Save it, Rogers,” Goode watched Seth try to slither into the bedroom. “Go to work. I’ve got to run.”

Seth was rifling through his drawers when Goode strolled in.

“Looking for something I should know about?” Goode asked. He had to hand it to Seth for keeping such a straight face.

“You know, you’re always wondering if I know something you don’t,” Seth said.  “You must not be a very good detective. If you must know, I was just going to put these out of sight in the laundry hamper.” He held up a black negligee and a pair of handcuffs.

Goode was laughing inside, but he didn’t want Seth to know it. “I can assure you that I’m not here to investigate your bizarre sexual practices. So why don’t you let me do my business? Here, why don’t you sit on the bed where I can see you while Detective Rogers inspects your pipes, mildew and mud?”

Seth wore his best poker face, but his body gave him away. Big wet spots had formed on his shirt under his arms, and his forehead was practically dripping. Goode couldn’t help but enjoy scrounging around in Seth’s drawers, where he found silver and gold cufflinks, engraved with his initials, a zillion neatly folded pairs of underwear in different colors, and a dozen pairs of cashmere socks. The contents were so far out of his price range he couldn’t even guess how much they cost.

In the walk-in closet, which was the size of a small bedroom, Seth’s shirts were arranged from white to pastels to bright colors to black. On the floor, he’d lined up his shoes from black to navy to oxblood to beige, all in Italian leather or suede. Everything smelled fresh and clean. Not like Goode’s mildewed closet.

“What’s this about Jake calling you a narcissistic asshole?” Goode asked, just to taunt him.

“I have no idea where that came from. I hardly know the guy, and Clover, as you’ve probably heard, is highly emotional. She probably made it up. Besides, even if she didn’t, what does he know anyway? He’s like a dishwasher or something.”

After searching the bedroom, Goode went through the kitchen, bathroom and living room cabinets, by which time his patience was wearing thin. Seth was still pacing.

“Okay, pal,” Goode said. “Why don’t you make this easy for me and tell me where to find the stuff? Otherwise, you and I will be up all night while we tear this place apart.”

The front door opened and Rogers came in holding nothing in his hands but Rocky’s leash. The dog followed close behind, covered with mud, put his snout in the air and looked around.

Seth’s face went white when he saw Rocky. “You didn’t say anything about bringing a dog in here. He’s filthy.”

“Sorry about that. Guess you’ll have to pay the maid a little overtime this week. If you’re still living here, that is.”

Seth frowned and shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re not in jail.”

Before Seth could say anything more, Rocky shook himself, sending globs of mud and drops of brown water all over the floor.

“Goddamn it,” Seth said. “Is this really necessary? I’d call this harassment.”

“Rocky,” Rogers said in a low voice, “go find the drugs.”

The dog immediately headed over to the Picasso and started jumping up on the wall, leaving a trail of muddy streaks. Seth went nuts.

“Get that dog away from my Picasso!” he screamed. “That thing cost a fortune.” He started moving towards Rocky, but stopped short when the dog turned and growled at him.

“Rocky, sit,” Rogers ordered. The dog looked at him quizzically but remained doggedly in front of the Picasso, looking back and forth between the sketch and his master.

“You want to do the honors, Detective Goode?” Rogers said.

Goode nodded and smiled as he walked over and patted the dog on the head. “Good boy,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

“If you cause any damage to that artwork, so help me God, my lawyer will have your ass in court,” Seth said, pointing his finger accusatorily at Goode—and with such impressive bravado.

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not polite to point?” Goode asked, smiling. “If you don’t get out of my face, I’m going to arrest you for obstructing justice. Now sit down and shut the hell up.”

Seth backed away and lowered himself slowly to the couch, his eyes moving between the dog and the Picasso. “Maybe the dog is smelling the steak I cooked earlier.” Seth said. “There are no drugs in this house. I told you.”

“Rocky doesn’t lie,” Rogers said flatly.

Goode pulled the Picasso off its hooks, brought the frame to the chair and sat down. He unhooked metal levers holding the wooden back in place, and pulled out a rectangular block wrapped in foil.

“What a surprise,” Goode said. Inside the foil was a black sticky slab. “Gee, Seth, whatever would you be doing with Mexican heroin in your Picasso? Expanding into the heavier stuff, I see. No wonder you said your business is growing.”

“It’s not mine. I’ve never seen that before,” Seth said. “I want a lawyer. Right now.”

Goode turned to Rogers. “You know, I have the funniest feeling. Like there’s some cocaine lying around the house somewhere. And some meth, too. What do you think, Detective Rogers?”

Seth was seething.

“I think you might be right, partner.” Rogers liked to needle arrogant perps as much as Goode did.

“Why don’t we let Rocky nose around the rest of the house?” Goode said.

“Good idea,” Rogers said, nodding his head with mock seriousness. “Find the drugs,” he said to Rocky, who scampered into the bedroom, his nails scratching across the floor. Rogers went after him but stopped in the doorway. He placed his hands on either side of the frame as he watched the dog go to work.

Goode put Seth’s arms behind him and was clicking the handcuffs around his wrists when Rocky started tearing something apart in the bedroom. It sounded like plastic ripping.

“Good boy!” Rogers said loudly. “Goode! Get in here!”

Seth’s face was whiter than white. “Let’s go see what they found, huh, big guy?” Goode said, pushing Seth towards the bedroom.

Rogers was grinning from ear to ear. In each hand, he held several rocks of coke, the perfect size to fit in the toe of a shoe. On the floor, several more rocks had fallen into smaller chunks around several pairs of dress shoes that were lying askew. Chewed-up pieces of clear plastic were scattered around like goose feathers after a pillow-fight. Goode kicked himself for not looking inside the shoes, which had been stored in a hanging case with rows of see-through plastic pockets. 

“You’re lucky Rocky didn’t chew up your Italian shoes,” Goode said mockingly, raising his eyebrows at Seth, who was not amused.

Goode cocked his head toward the door in a signal to Rogers that it was time to go downtown. “Seth Kennedy, you’re under arrest for possession of narcotics, possession for sale, distribution of narcotics and trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Chapter 32

Goode

W
hile Goode was booking Seth, Sergeant Stone and Lieutenant Wilson each called to congratulate him, which meant a lot, given the late hour.

“Keep following your instincts until you can show how the drug operation is linked to the murders,” Stone said. “You’re on a roll.”

The lieutenant congratulated Goode for walking into a homicide investigation and making two major drug busts in the process, but he made sure to remind Goode that the mayor, the chief and he, as the lieutenant who would decide whether Goode got the soon-to-be-vacant Homicide slot, wanted these murders solved ASAP.

“All the news networks have been camped outside headquarters around the clock, and now they’re swarming PB,” he said. “This series of murders has become quite the national story.”

Nothing Goode didn’t know already. But this only underscored his need to get at least a few hours of sleep or he wouldn’t be able to function. That said, when he reached his cottage, he was wide awake. Stress was funny that way. He saw Gary Bentwood’s DVD beckoning to him from the kitchen table and decided it could be the perfect stress reliever to enable some serious shut-eye.

During his brief meeting with Gary B., he could tell the guy was nothing more than a pathetic pervert. His kinky leanings may have creeped out Tania Marcus, but Goode saw no clear motive for his wanting her dead.

He kneeled on his living room carpet and slipped the DVD into the player. As the opening began to roll, he felt the same excitement and nervousness that he did on a first date with a very attractive woman. He’d pictured Tania as he read her diary, and he couldn’t believe he was finally going to watch her move, hear her talk, and look into her eyes. Well, sort of.

The scene started with the shot of a sidewalk and the sound of heels clicking on cement. The clicking grew louder as a pair of red suede pumps approached.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
The camera panned up from a young woman’s thin ankles to her slim but shapely legs, to a black mini skirt cinched at a tiny waist, up to a stretchy red top that hugged her breasts.

Wow. She was insanely perfect.

The camera moved up her long neck to her chin and chiseled crimson lips, which filled the screen as they spread slowly and warmly into a grin, causing a mole just left of her mouth to disappear into a dimple. Then the shot locked on to her eyes. They were bedroom eyes, with black liner across the top lid that set off the turquoise of her irises. Next, the camera backed away to an overall shot of her kicking off her heels, exposing her red toenails. She lay down on a blanket in the grass and extended her hand to a man who was drinking beer from a bottle. He gave her the beer and, as she reached out to take it, her red fingernails caressed his thigh.

Then, just like in his dream, she tilted her head back, revealing her exquisite neck. She poured the ochre liquid down her throat, and when she was finished, her entire face lit up with a smile. A wicked, sexy smile.

“It’s summertime again,” said a sultry woman’s voice, which may or may not have been Tania’s. “The best time for Buck’s.”

Goode watched it again. Four more times, in fact. It seemed that the more he played it, the more he got to know her. She was amazing. No wonder so many men wanted her. You’d have to be comatose not to.