Chapter 33
VERNON
Vernon leaned back at his desk and gazed in almost-religious gratitude at the station ceiling. Information kept falling into his lap from the clear blue sky.
First, the primary suspect—well, the only suspect, CJ Moore—had moved into the Marigold Cottages. After inviting two tenants to the death scene, she’d joined that tight-knit community of eccentrics that was mixed up in previous murders. That gave him a nice juicy lead to follow up on.
Second, he’d gotten an email from an LA law firm.
Sworn testimony. Another eyewitness. Jonathan “Sunny” Wheeler, who’d sent an affidavit instead of submitting to an in-person interview.
Of course, Vernon would insist upon one, but Wheeler was so rich he’d end up talking to the lawyers.
Still, that was fine. You took what the gods gave you.
As he typed up the details, his computer dinged with yet another notification—this one from the officer who did forensic accounting.
He scanned the message, then read more closely.
Good things came in threes: Frank DeYoung had withdrawn a thousand dollars from an ATM, three or four times a week for the past four months.
“Damn,” Vernon murmured. “Fifty-five thousand dollars in total.”
What did a guy with that kind of money want with all that cash?
Something untraceable, that’s what.
Vernon phoned the LA law firm about conducting the interview with Sunny Wheeler, then left the station to visit the Marigold Cottages. He liked them, sure, they amused him. They also brought an outsider’s perspective to … well, everything. That made their weird insights valuable.
And in this case, one of them in particular might know about untraceable cash.
Vernon parked a block away. He felt like he should suspect the tenants of accomplice liability—aiding and abetting—but he didn’t, not really.
Say what you would about the eccentrics of Marigold Cottages, they’d never mess with an elderly man who funded a bunch of charities.
Of course, none of them would speak to Vernon.
Or wouldn’t communicate with him. Golda Bakofsky had a gift for speaking forever without saying anything.
But one of them, at least, would listen. And there was only one person on the property who you might hire for fifty thousand dollars in cash. Fifty thousand dollars for a job you wanted to stay hidden.
He paused at the Little Free Library out front, looking at the books. All fiction. He didn’t see the point. He headed up the three stairs, turned past Ocean Mistral’s place toward Anthony’s studio apartment. He knocked, then went inside without waiting for an answer.
The apartment looked like he remembered, small and tidy. A workout section, a bed, and a small table with two chairs and a bowl of fruit. The only differences were the faint scent of perfume and the childish pictures on the fridge, mostly of whales and walruses.
Anthony appeared from the bathroom, naked but for his boxer briefs, scrubbing his bald head with a fluffy lavender towel. His shape reminded Vernon of an old-timey strongman, both muscle and meat, not like the bodybuilders you saw now with 0 percent body fat.
“I’ve got to start going to the gym,” Vernon said.
“Detective Enible,” Anthony said.
“Let me guess. The towel was a gift from Lily-Ann Novak.”
“There are different kinds of cotton,” Anthony told him.
“That’s old news. I’m married.” He took a seat at the little table. “You mind if I sit?”
Instead of answering, Anthony draped the towel around his neck.
“You’re guilty of something,” Vernon told him. “We both know that. Two bodies dropped on this property within months of your moving in, that’s not a coincidence.”
Anthony went to the closet and took a polo from a hanger and pulled it over his head.
“How’re you doing for money?”
“Fine,” Anthony said.
“You making minimum wage?”
He stepped into a pair of pants. “Seventeen fifty.”
“You get a raise?”
Anthony sat across from him, looking politely attentive. “That’s the starting pay.”
The guy could give lessons in stonewalling without pissing off a cop.
“So you’re washing dishes for high school wages while Lily-Ann Novak’s got seven zeros in her portfolio.
” Vernon took an avocado from the fruit bowl.
“You and I both know that does things to a man’s self-esteem.
So what do you do? A man with your background?
You leverage what you know. Maybe working under the table. Cash only.”
“You don’t care if I’m working for cash,” Anthony said.
“No. Have you heard about Frank DeYoung? Of course you have, there are no secrets in the Marigold Cottages.”
“There’s Hamilton’s buttermilk recipe.”
Vernon let out a huff of laughter despite himself.
He was comfortable with Anthony. He respected him in a way.
They played by the same rules. “All right. Over the last few months, Frank DeYoung withdrew a small fortune in cash. Fifty thousand dollars. There’s no trace of that money, unless you’ve got something to tell me. ”
“I don’t,” Anthony said.
“Damn. I didn’t think so.” He felt the weight of the avocado in his palm. “Do you know CJ Moore? The DeYoung’s housekeeper?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Your new neighbor. She knows Mrs. B from the Y, so say she mentions that her boss needs some under-the-table help. Mrs. B happens to know a guy who is not too encumbered by the law.”
Anthony just looked at him.
“That’s you.”
“I figured.”
“Yeah, but you’re not dumb enough to take the risk. That would make my life too easy. Okay, I’ll come clean. Marigold Cottages is involved somehow. I know that. Two of you were there when the old guy died, and my only suspect now lives across the courtyard. So I have to investigate, right?”
“I can see that.”
“However, I’d rather not waste my time. So how about this? If there’s anything I should know, you’ll tell me. And in exchange, I’ll keep other cops from stomping around your private paradise.”
“I’ll pass that along,” Anthony said.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Vernon showed him the avocado. “You mind if I take this with me? It’s taco night and my wife makes the worst guacamole.”
“It’s all yours.”
“The secret is adding too much salt and eating it right away.”
Anthony nodded stonily. “Salty and fresh, huh?”
“Ha. Yeah, just like the Marigold Cottages.”