Laugher Read online

  Roscoe’s secretary was on the phone when I arrived. A different secretary this time. Younger. The other must have called in sick. She finished her call and looked at me.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes. My name is Marshall Santone. I have an appointment with Mr. Roscoe at nine o’clock.”

  She glanced at the clock on her desk. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Roscoe actually isn’t in yet. I could call him for you.”

  “Please.”

  She did. Her face was blank, then her brow furrowed and she dialed again.

  “I’m sorry,” she hung up. “He’s not answering. Odd. But I could leave a message for him, or you’re welcome to wait, if you’d like.”

  Wait. Wait for what? For Roscoe to run? To get away with something horrible that nobody in that office, including myself, understood? I may have already been too late.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Men in suits and women in dresses all became blurs as I ran out of the office and down the stairs.

  The neighborhood was still and silent. As I pulled up to Roscoe’s house, I wondered if anybody even lived on this street, in these houses, or if they were only there to look pretty. A lot of things in this town seem to be that way.

  No car in the driveway. Had he fled? Was I too late?

  I knocked. Nothing. Knocked again.

  “Roscoe!” My voice almost echoed on the empty street.

  I tried the knob. It turned so fast I almost broke it off, and the door opened.

  Inside was even quieter. A stifled, musty silence.

  “Hello?” I said. “Is anyone here? Mr. Roscoe?”

  I made my way slowly down the lavish hall. In the living room the back door was open and through the screen door I saw one of the lounge chairs with its back to me; a thin, delicate arm draped off the side. Mrs. Roscoe.

  I stepped out onto the porch.

  “Mrs. Roscoe?” She didn’t move. Probably asleep, or drunk. I left the porch and approached her.

  “Mrs. Roscoe, I’m Detective Santone. We met a few days ago. I’m looking for your husband. Do you know where he—“

  The cement was red. So was the chair. So were the streaks of dried blood leading from her leg to the holes in her chest.

  Frozen in 88 degree heat, I stood looking over her. He did it, I thought. That son of a bitch killed his own wife.

  That thought was quickly dismissed, however, when I noticed the pinkish tint to the water in the pool.

  I walked to the edge. The pink turned darker below, black even, but I could see clear as day what lied at the bottom.

  Nathan Roscoe.

  The movement of the water gave the illusion he was still fighting for life, but the bullet hole in his head stifled any fantasy of that. He was as dead as the street he lived on.

  His eyes were empty, his mouth wide open as if that’s where his soul escaped from. Laughing, perhaps.

  Chapter 20

  The kitchen was a mess. I poured through the cabinets, the fridge, high and low. Nothing. There was no envelope anywhere. I was considering driving all the way back out to Ventura just to pick Gael up and take him to the INS building myself when I looked at the floor, and noticed the shady spot I was standing in. Directly above me was the light fixture, with a dark outline against the glass.

  I climbed onto the counter, probably what Gael was doing when he knocked over the mug, and unscrewed the glass dome covering the bulbs.

  It was a thick, padded manila envelope. Thick enough to conceal the shape of whatever it was inside. But I knew what it was the moment I picked it up, and it was confirmed when I dumped it onto the counter.

  A .45 Glock handgun. My .45 Glock handgun. No doubt, the .45 Glock handgun that killed Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe.

  Nora.

  Up to now, I’d been forcing myself to believe she was being strung along, that she was a victim. But it had to be her. She’s the only one who knew who Charlotte was. The only one that could’ve known to use her. Nora sent Fred to get the key from her and force Gael here to plant the gun she used to kill Roscoe. To betray him. And betray me.

  It was actually quite impressive, in a way. But it didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain where she was. It didn’t explain what happened to Denny. And it didn’t explain why.

  My phone rang so loud it rattled the walls. Fear told me not to answer it, but logic told me it would be worse not to.

  “Detective Grayson.”

  “Mr. Santone. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m just dandy,” I said, trying not to quiver. “How was the Long Walk? Find anything?”

  “No, it was a bust. There’s nothing there. Manager’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Vacation, they said.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bullshit.

  “However,” he said. “Something came to us that I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Something? What is it?”

  “That’s what I’d like to discuss, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Go ahead.”

  “I meant discuss in person.”

  He wasn’t fooling anybody. I could smell the handcuffs through the phone.

  “I’m a little tied up at the moment,” I said. “Are you sure we can’t talk over the phone?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I can’t meet you right now.”

  “No problem. I can come to you.”

  Did I really want to do that? Just let them to come here and take me away? What was I supposed to do? Flee? Innocent people don’t flee. But then again, how could I find Nora while sitting in a holding cell?

  “That would be fine,” I said. “When can I expect you?”

  “Are you at home?”

  “I am.”

  “We’ll head out right now.”

  “See you soon.” I hung up. I estimated about ten minutes before they’d be swarming. I gathered some essentials; my wallet, keys, notebook, cigarettes, and the gun. Of course, the gun. I kept a stack of emergency cash at the bottom of the liquor cabinet. In my judgment, this qualified.

  I screwed the glass dome back onto the light fixture. Once the room was back to normal, I locked the front door and snuck out the back window.

  My spontaneous plan rested on one assumption: that Ned was at home. If he wasn’t, I’d have some serious convincing to do and “I bought you dinner six years ago” doesn’t exactly sway a judge in a double homicide case.

  It wasn’t until I saw him through the window that I started breathing again. He was in his living room, typing away on his laptop. He jumped a little when I tapped on the glass, then came to the window.

  “Marshall? What are you doing?”

  “Ned, I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “May I come inside? Through the back.”

  He nodded. I met him on the back porch and went in through his kitchen.

  “Ned, I need you to drive me somewhere.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you anything or else you’ll be in trouble too. I need you to take me to the Santa Monica Pier, drop me off, and drive away. But we have to leave right now.”

  Ned looked at me with disappointment, like a mother watching her child sneak in after curfew. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “Please,” I said.

  He hesitated another moment, then snagged his keys off the hook. “Let’s go.”

  ----------------------------

  Turned out we left just in time. As we rounded the corner at the end of our block, I heard sirens approach and pass; didn’t see them, of course, because I was lying down on the back seat.

  “Thank you, Ned. You’re doing more good than you know.”

  He was sullen, and certainly scared. “Am I aiding a criminal right now?”

  “No,” I said, but the question pierced me and my answer injected me with guilt; because, in a way, he was. I le
t Nora get away. I let her kill two people.

  He didn’t say anything back. I wanted to say something more, something comforting, to assure him he wasn’t in trouble. But everything that ran through my brain sounded like a lie.

  We were on Santa Monica Boulevard when I decided it was safe to sit up. When I did, I felt something in my pocket and pulled it out. It was the article I printed the night before.

  “Ned,” I said. “You told me you worked for an investment firm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about this?” I handed him the paper.

  “Mortgage fraud? A little.”

  “What is this section about ‘robo-signing’? What does that mean?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Please.”

  “It refers to mortgage servicers forging documentation to prove ownership of mortgages and titles in order to foreclose on properties.”

  “Why would they need to forge them? Don’t they own them?”

  “Not if they were invested.”

  “Invested? In what?” I took a look around, searching for flashing lights, but saw none.

  “You remember in 2008,” he said, “with the bank bailouts and all that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, at the same time, the housing market crashed too. Over the past decade, mortgage-backed securities became big trading deals on Wall Street. These securities were made up of thousands, maybe tens of thousands of consumer mortgages that the banks owned. Everybody and their dog was investing in them, and getting rich. But in ‘08, the housing bubble burst and those securities became worthless. So the banks lost their collateral.”

  “The mortgages.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The banks needed to bring back their revenue,” I said, “which means they have to sell the houses they foreclose on. But they don’t own the titles anymore, so they forge them.”

  “Well, they don’t forge it themselves. They hire that work out.”

  To warehouses in Ventura County, I thought and folded the article back up, then pulled out my notebook and wrote “ROSCOE-WALL STREET CONTACTS?”

  “What kinds of banks are involved in this?” I asked.

  “All the big ones. Some of them just got busted by the feds and came to a settlement. Not much of one, however. It amounts to a slap on the wrist. But any bank with lending power could do the same thing.”

  “Could they also do the same thing with commercial mortgages?”

  “I don’t see why not. The process is probably more complicated since commercial mortgages tend to have multiple owners, but it’s possible.”

  As far as I knew, Jack Slavas was the sole owner of The Chuckle Hut.

  I looked up. We were coming up on Ocean Avenue, near the Pier. “Right here is fine.” I said.

  Ned pulled off to the curb and I got out. Ned kept his eyes forward.

  “You’re a good man,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I was about to close the door when he looked at me. “I won’t say anything.”

  I nodded, and shut the door.

  -------------------------------

  The Seaside Hotel on Ocean was half a block away. It wasn’t until I walked through the doors that I remembered the gun stuffed into my pocket. Luckily hotels don’t send you through a metal detector before check-in, so I covered it up best I could.

  “Welcome to the Seaside Hotel. How may I help you?” He was a young, clean-cut fellow behind the counter. Probably an aspiring actor.

  “I’d like a room for tonight please.”

  “Alrighty.” He typed on the computer. “For how many?”

  “Just one. Can I smoke here?”

  “We do have some designated smoking rooms for an extra fee. Would you like one?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I hear ya. Could use one myself about now.” He smiled awkwardly and looked back at the screen. “Okay, um...I’m sorry, but it looks like none of those rooms are available, but there is a two-bed room available in non-smoking. Will that be all right?”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Behind me, two police officers walked in and headed towards the restaurant. One of them would’ve seen me if I hadn’t turned my head away before he glanced over.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Great.” He smiled and typed some more. “And what is your name?”

  “Robert Olsen,” I said. It was the name of an old colleague of mine. I’m not sure why I chose him, but I always thought he had an enviably simple name.

  “Okay,” he typed it in. From under his desk he slid me a sign in form. “If you could just fill that out please?”

  I did. With my fake name and Gordy’s phone, save for a couple of switched numbers, and slid it back.

  “Great. And it’s two hundred and ninety-eight dollars for the night, Mr. Olsen. Will that be card or cash?”

  I grabbed my wallet and gave him the cash.

  “And we also require a security deposit of a hundred dollars that we will refund upon check out. Will that be cash as well?”

  “Another hundred?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. It’s in case of purchasing movies, buying items from the mini bar, things like that. Would you like to put that on a credit card?”

  I couldn’t let him run a credit card, with all my information there ready to trace. But I was also about forty bucks short of that hundred and I needed that room. Now.

  “I, uh, I don’t use credit cards, but I’m a bit short on the cash. Is there anyway you would let me go with sixty?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s our policy.”

  “You’d be doing me a huge favor. Please.”

  He gave me a curious look, a suspicious look. Then smiled and gave me the key. “Enjoy your stay.”

  I tipped my imaginary hat to him.

  --------------------------

  The room was on the third floor. It overlooked the ocean, but that didn’t matter to me since I kept the curtains closed, the door locked and chained, and hung the “Do not disturb” sign on the knob the minute I entered.

  What to do next. Didn’t dare light up a cigarette. I’d already made too much of a nuisance of myself, though the craving, like a starving zombie, gnawed at my brain.

  I turned my cell phone off, and out of paranoia, removed the battery as well. Then put the gun inside the safe in the closet. Didn’t want the cleaning ladies, or anyone, to find it.

  A surreal calm came over me when I lied down on the bed. Who knows why or where it came from. Maybe it meant that I was doing the right thing. Maybe it meant there was a storm to come.

  A knock at the door. For a minute, I thought I was back in San Diego. That it was Denny, ready to take Nora back to New York and leave me alone forever. That everything that happened since was a dream. But no. There was a voice that definitely was not Denny’s: “Sir?”

  It sounded like the kid from the front desk. Maybe he had the wrong room.

  “Mr. Olsen?”

  Guess not. Did his boss send him there? Was I being kicked out for not paying the full deposit?

  I went to the door and peeked through the peep hole. “Excuse me.” I said. “I put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on.”

  “I realize that, sir, and I’m sorry, but you dropped something in the lobby. I thought you would want it.” He held up my little notebook. Must’ve dropped it when I pulled out my wallet.

  I opened the door quickly and held out my hand. He dropped it in my palm.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  A nod and a step and he was gone. That could’ve been bad. On the inside of the cover was my real name and phone number. I wondered if he had seen it. Again, paranoia. I hoped.

  I put it on the nightstand, where I noticed the complimentary chocolate truffles and remembered I was very hungry.

  I scarfed down those truffles, not savoring them at all and picked u
p my notebook, opened it at random.

  My first meeting with Nora.

  Bullshit. All of it. Everything she told me was a lie. Except in her description of Denny. A scar from a removed tattoo. An ear piercing, and I remembered they had found Denny’s earring at the Chuckle Hut, probably given to Leitner by Nora to plant.