Chapter 61
VERNON
When the receptionist directed Ocean Mistral’s call to Vernon’s desk, he felt a spark of excitement.
She’d actually listened to him. She’d spoken with the other tenants and cobbled together some information.
Of course, that could mean anything from a vital clue to Mrs. B’s carrot cake recipe, but still.
He lifted the receiver. “Detective Enible.”
“This is Ocean. Mistral. Yeah. I found a body.”
He felt himself still. “Where?”
“Mrs. B and I. We found a body. Stabbed or— There’s a lot of blood. In a car.”
“At the Cottages?”
“No, no. No, outside a place called VivX, way out by Parma Park? Um, wait a second. What’s the address? It’s on your phone.” He heard Mrs. B in the background, then Ocean rattled off an address. “It’s inside a car. A Genesis G something. In the parking lot. I have a license number if you want.”
“Yes please,” he said.
“Oh! Shit, shit.” An edge of panic tightened in her voice. “It’s sun weel, S-U-N-W-E-E-L. It’s—it’s Sunny Wheeler, that’s got to be…”
“Take a breath,” he told her, speaking softly. “Good, that’s good. Now stay put and don’t touch anything and—don’t let her touch anything.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
He did believe her. “A patrol unit will join you in two minutes. I’m already on the way.”
“There’s so much blood,” she told him.
Vernon submitted a verbal report and grabbed a few water bottles on his way to his car.
He expanded his verbal on the radio, to officially note the possible connection to an ongoing case, and he was still only halfway to the scene when the Genesis tag returned an ID. Sure enough: Jonathan “Sunny” Wheeler.
“Well, damn,” he said.
So Mrs. B and Ocean, both friends of CJ Moore, had found Sunny Wheeler, a friend of Frank DeYoung, murdered in a parking lot.
Two men from the same social circle died violently within a month of each other.
Two men from the same party. Plus, Wheeler had provided testimony implicating Moore.
That turned Vernon’s simple case, his easy conviction, into something far more complex—and uncertain.
“Damn,” he said again.
When he arrived at the address, a patrol car had already taped off the area, and two more had preceded him into the lot.
Everyone loved a murder. To his surprise and relief, only one of the officers had parked too close to the Genesis, undermining the integrity of the scene with new tire tracks and a billow of dust. He decided to show the kids how a veteran acted.
He drove slowly to the far end of the lot, keeping his expression unimpressed, barely glancing at the murder car.
Then he stepped into the sunlight, in absolutely no rush, and offered Ocean Mistral and Mrs. Bakofsky his water bottles. You prioritized the living. At this point, despite TV crime lab bullshit, the dead barely mattered.
“Thanks,” Ocean said, after taking a gulp.
“She wouldn’t let me within twenty feet,” Mrs. B complained. “I’ve never seen a stab victim before.”
“I’ll show you the pictures later,” Vernon said.
The old woman perked up. “Really?”
“No,” he told her, before asking Ocean: “Are you going to need a lawyer to talk to me?”
“Not if you agree to never tell Anthony,” she said.
“Hah. That’s a deal.” He pulled out his notebook. “So you’re a ways from home.”
“Because you deputized us to investigate Frank DeYoung’s death,” Mrs. B explained.
“Uh…” That took him a second. “Oh, right. My mistake.”
She nodded happily. “You know Sunny Wheeler was a good friend of Frank’s, yes? Well, apparently, years ago, Frank helped him out of trouble. Maybe legal trouble? Something to do with a failed business. With this failed business.”
Vernon peered at the abandoned-looking house. “That’s not a residence?”
“It’s VivX,” Ocean explained. “A life-extension company Wheeler owned. Now closed.”
“Life extension like freezing your brain?”
She shrugged. “As far as we know.”
“Okay, so you drove out here … why?”
“Because we’re thorough,” Mrs. B told him.
He considered her wrinkled face. “Are you thorough, or are you bored?”
“Oh, I’m never bored! Especially not now. Ocean went entirely eggshell when she found the body, yet she wouldn’t even let me peek, which for the record I am not claiming qualifies as elder abuse. Why haven’t you inspected the car? Aren’t you supposed to march over there and look soulful?”
“The officer confirmed there’s a body,” Vernon told her. “Now we wait for forensics, they’re the experts.”
“Ocean confirmed there’s a body,” Mrs. B said.
He shook his head. “I once got called to investigate a murder behind a dumpster that turned out to be four rotisserie chickens.”
“Is the body Sunny Wheeler?” Ocean asked. “Or it’s just his car?”
“We haven’t established the decedent’s identity,” he said, looking toward the Genesis. “Though yeah, I suppose I should take a stroll around.”
“I don’t suppose you’d escort a harmless old woman?” Mrs. B asked.
“I’d love to,” he told her. “If there were any around.”
She hooted a laugh. “Oh, good point! Point to you, Officer.”
Vernon felt himself smile along. God help him, he needed more irreverent, joyful energy in his life.
Everything felt fresher in the company of the nutjobs of the Marigold Cottages.
Still, he dropped the smile as he crossed the lot to talk with the officer who’d arrived first, a short steroidal guy who said he’d “secured the zone” by checking there was no ingress or egress from the building.
“Egress,” Vernon said. “Good job.”
Halfway to the Genesis, the scent struck him.
Yeah, that wasn’t rotisserie chicken. His stomach bubbled so he secured a surgical mask over his nose, then walked in slow spirals around the car.
After he documented the surroundings, he placed a gloved hand against the passenger window to block the glare of sunlight.
The stench seeped through the scent of eucalyptus oil in his mask, and he felt his lips turn down.
He forced himself to catalog what he saw inside the car: an elderly man in a button-down shirt, now stiff with blood, slumped in the driver’s seat.
Sure enough, he matched the description of Sunny Wheeler.
Dried fluids made ugly shapes on his sunken, purple-white face.
A dark slash on his neck was oriented more vertically than horizontally.
“Huh,” Vernon said too softly for anyone to hear.
That was rare, an up-and-down cut to the throat.
He took a few pictures, even though the CSI officer would take better ones.
He wondered what cutting up and down meant in terms of positioning.
The cut seemed to follow the jugular, which maybe explained the quantity of blood.
And possibly implied a perpetrator who knew how to kill.
Okay, so did this relate to Frank DeYoung’s death?
Vernon hoped not, for the sake of his current case. Still, two old men had died violently after attending the same party. Two longtime friends. Which meant, first, he needed to check in with CJ Moore, establish her whereabouts. She’d already killed one old guy.