Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6) Read online

  “Holding a crowbar,” said said, then laughed at herself. “I’m sorry. I sound bitter, don’t I?”

  “The bitterness of my mind urges me at all hazards to speak what I think.”

  She gave me a quizzical look.

  “Thomas Becket,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Archbishop of Canterbury, twelfth century.” I tapped my head. “Quotes jump out from time to time.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “Sometimes it’s best to let the bitterness of the truth out so it can be dealt with in broad daylight.”

  “What was he bitter about?”

  “The king. King Henry II. He wanted Becket to sign a document that gave the king powers over the church, and he told the king where he could stick it.”

  “Really?”

  “Not in those words, exactly.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Eventually, the king had enough. One day he was sitting around and shouted ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’ Some knights heard that and went and found Becket at prayer, and hacked him to death.”

  Trista Cunningham said, “Terrific.”

  “There are no kings around, Trista. So what can you tell me about Brian’s relationship with Clint?”

  “Distant,” she said, and shook her head.

  “What’s the best way to contact him?”

  “He won’t want to talk to you. He never liked to talk, period. He’s suspicious of everybody. If you had to get to him, I think it would be best to go to one of his jobsites. He does drywall. Has his own business, Cunningham Drywall. But I never know where he’s working.”

  “There may be a way to find out.”

  We paused then and sipped some coffee.

  I said, “What happened with that girl he was with?”

  “She broke it off. It really hurt Clint. That’s probably when all this started.”

  “Do you have her contact information?”

  She took out her phone and scrolled. “Bianca Aiken.” She gave me a phone number and an address. Then said, “Realistically, what will happen to Clint?”

  “There are programs available to minors to deal with problems involving drugs, mental health issues, that kind of thing. But he’s going to have to cooperate with us and the D.A. That may take some convincing.”

  “Convince him,” she said. “He’s all I’ve got.”

  “One other thing,” I said. “The police may serve a search warrant here.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I should have a look at Clint’s room.”

  “Are you…are we…”

  “Allowed to do that?”

  She nodded.

  “Of course,” I said, being almost sure of the legal part. “If I find anything I’ll turn it over to Ira as attorney-client privilege material. He can sort out the legalities later. He’s a very smart lawyer.”

  “I know,” Trista said. “He saved my mother’s house from foreclosure.”

  “Why don’t you do some more work on your project, and I’ll have a look at Clint’s room?”

  “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

  Clint’s room was neat and tidy, like it had been made up as a guest room waiting for a guest. That had to be Trista’s doing. The room had a mirrored closet, and next to that a nightstand. The nightstand had a lamp on it in the shape of an alien head. And something that looked like a wireless phone charger. The bed was twin size, with a brown comforter and two pillows—one regular pillow with a white cover, and one smaller pillow with a black cover and yellow lettering spelling out BE COOL.

  Over the bed, tacked on the wall, was a Spider-Man poster.

  On the wall opposite the bed was a big screen TV and a dresser. A game console sat on top of the dresser. Next to the dresser were some shelves holding books, DVDs, and a castle made of Legos.

  The desk had a MacBook Air and gooseneck desk lamp. A straight-back chair was tucked up against the desk.

  I sat in the chair and went through the three drawers in the desk. The top drawer was a mess of papers, sticky notes, pens, pencils, paperclips, a little stapler, some highlighters, and a Swiss Army Knife. The middle drawer had a harmonica and an instruction book—Instant Blues Harmonica. I tried not to picture Clint sitting in prison and blowing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot like in an old Warner Bros. movie.

  The bottom drawer was locked.

  Naturally I had to look inside.

  My lock-picking skills are legendary in my own mind, all owing to Joey Feint’s patient instruction. Joey Feint was a quirky New Haven private investigator I worked for back in the day, after my parents were murdered. He taught me some useful things. Like a rudimentary drawer lock being the proverbial piece of cake. I got two paperclips from the top drawer and straightened them, then twisted one into an L shape with a little hook to act as a tension wrench. I put the wrench in the lock. The Joey Feint secret is to put the tension wrench at the top of the lock instead of the bottom. I did and turned it clockwise until I felt the tension, then inserted the straight clip underneath, raking the pins. In two seconds the drawer was unlocked.

  There were two three-ring binders in the drawer.

  One had Spider-Man on the cover. Inside this one were plastic pages that held cards. Marvel trading cards mostly. A lot of Spidey, of course, but also Iron Man, Captain America, Hulk, Thor, Black Panther, Doctor Strange. Lovingly preserved.

  The other binder, plain black cover, was thick with notebook paper. The pages had writing on them, black ink. The writing was elegant, like calligraphy. Poems. Each page had a date at the bottom, and the initials CC.

  I scanned a few of the pages. A poem from three years ago went like this:

  I want to be the one you want

  I want to be the one you think

  I want to be the one you see

  I want to be the one you drink

  All in all in all in all

  In winter spring summer fall

  Not exactly Robert Frost. But he was only thirteen when he wrote it.

  Then this from two years ago:

  twisting, twisting, guts twisting

  no one listening no one listening

  not god

  not men

  not women

  not girls

  not you

  I went through a few more at random. There did appear to be a change in the poetry the further along in time. Not that it got better. It was more like entropy, an increasing degree of disorder.

  The other notable point was that each poem had a drawing with it. Clint was no poet, but he sure had artistic talent. I know, because I have none. My horses always come out looking like large, mutant dogs. Not so Clint Cunningham. He drew dense forests, birds of prey, medieval castles, exotic fish, superhero cars, and Spider-Man in various poses. All brilliant.

  I kept reading. A year ago there was another change. The poems were now laced with profanity. There was no attempt to make the lines scan in any discernible way. And the drawings changed, too. They were bloody, horrific—Hallmark cards from hell.

  The last page in the notebook had no writing at all. The entire page was an intricately designed death’s head. Cracks in the cranium, mouth agape, teeth dripping with blood. A bony hand held a revolver pointed at the temple in what appeared to be an incipient act of skeleton suicide.

  In the right eye socket, which was on the left side as you looked at the drawing, was a letter T. In the other was a B. In the mouth, a D.

  Out of the D came a coiled snake, with bared fangs and fury in the eyes.

  This page was dated a week ago.

  For a long moment I sat there, just looking at it, wondering what it was trying to tell me about the insides of Clint Cunningham.

  I put the Spider-Man binder back in the drawer.

  I returned to the living room with the poetry notebook and the laptop.

  Trista Cunningham was at her work station. “Did you find something?”

  “Have you go
t a moment?” I said.

  “Of course.” She came over and sat next to me on the sofa. I held up the notebook.

  “Did you ever see this before?”

  “His school notebook?”

  “His poetry.”

  She frowned. “That has poetry?”

  “His attempts.”

  “Let me see.” She put her hand out.

  “I need to tell you, there are some disturbing things in here.”

  Her hand trembled a bit, but she kept it there. “I need to see.”

  I gave her the notebook. And watched for several minutes as she went through the pages.

  “Things just keep getting better and better,” she said.

  “Trista, can I ask you to look at the last page?”

  She opened to it. “Oh God.” She turned her head and slammed the notebook shut.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” I said.

  “TBD,” she said softly. “To Be Done. I say that all the time. I have a pile on my desk with a TBD paperweight on it.” She took a breath. “What do you think Clint means by it? With the gun…”

  I didn’t say what I thought.

  She did. “That he’s planning to kill himself.”

  A moment of silence, then she lowered her head. She looked like she was praying.

  “I’ll take this and the laptop to Ira,” I said.

  “And if the police come?” Trista said.

  “If they don’t have a warrant, they’ll ask you for consent to search. Tell them on advice of your son’s counsel you cannot give consent. If they do have a warrant, tell them you want to read it before they proceed. They have to give you a copy. There will be a page laying out exactly where they can search and what they can search for. It should be limited to Clint’s room, perhaps his bathroom and the garage.”

  “What about my bedroom?”

  “Absolutely not. Nor your workspace. If they ask to search there, tell them no, and give them Ira’s phone number. If they try to anyway, call Ira right away.”

  “This is a nightmare,” she said.

  A nightmare that was just beginning.

  “This is a nightmare” repeated in my mind as I drove to Bianca Aikens’s address. It was in a section of Studio City called The Silver Triangle. South of the Boulevard, as they say, meaning Ventura Boulevard and the tonier neighborhoods that exist there. And if the prices are any indication, it’s true. It’s seven-figure territory.

  The Aiken house was a two-story, Spanish-style home with a red, Mission-tile roof. I parked at the curb across the street. I was buttoning the top button of my Hawaiian shirt when a car varoomed up the street. Not just any car. A silver Porsche 911 Carrera convertible. A beautiful piece of machinery that had to cost at least a hundred-and-fifty large. It screeched to a stop in front of the Aiken house.

  Behind the wheel was a guy in a red backward baseball cap. Next to him was a girl with short dark hair.

  The driver jumped out. He wore a striped, button-up short-sleeve shirt, untucked over deep-blue slacks. His high-top basketball shoes were fire red and probably cost a couple hundred bucks. That’s what urban cachet costs these days.

  He came around as the girl got out. She was draped in a baggy white shirt, and was skinny as a candle. These two snapped together like magnets and went into lip lock, grinding it out for at least a minute.

  I captured the tender scene on my phone. I was able to get the license plate, too.

  Finally, they came up for air and the girl ran toward the house. The guy got back in the car, revved up and peeled out.

  I got out and walked to the front door. A big, expensive door. Meaning that a camera—yep, there it was—would be trained on whoever approached. I took one of Ira’s cards out of my wallet and held it up to the camera, and rang the bell.

  A moment later a voice came through the speaker above the doorbell. “Yes?”

  “Bianca Aiken?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m an investigator. I work for the lawyer representing Clint.”

  “What about Clint?”

  “He’s in jail.”

  “What?”

  “Can we talk?”

  Pause. “I don’t think so.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Bianca, do you know what a subpoena is?”

  “A what?”

  “A document that compels you to come to court, or get held in contempt. Or even go to jail.” A little flair there. “But I don’t want that. I just want to ask a couple of questions and then I’ll go away.”

  No response.

  “Bianca?”

  “Back away.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Away from the door.”

  I took a couple of steps backward.

  “To the lawn,” the voice said.

  Whatever. I went to the lawn. A moment later the door opened and Bianca Aiken stepped out. She had one of those faces you would never notice in a crowd. With no makeup and in that floppy shirt, she didn’t look like someone who cared if she was noticed or not.

  She was holding something in her outstretched hand.

  “Pepper spray,” she said.

  I put my hands up. “You won’t need that. Is your mom home?”

  “She lives in Texas,” Bianca said. “But my dad’ll be here soon, so you better go.”

  “I won’t be long, Bianca. I promise.”

  She gave me an uncertain look. “Why is Clint in jail?”

  “He’s being charged with possession for sale.”

  Bianca closed her eyes and shook her head. At least she let her weapon of choice drop to her side.

  “How long has Clint been into that?” I said.

  “How should I know?”

  “You used to be together.”

  “For like two seconds.”

  “But you must know him pretty well,” I said.

  “Not really.”

  “How about a little?”

  She shrugged.

  “You go to Elias, right?”

  Her eyes flashed. “How do you know that? Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Bianca, I’m just gathering information.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I keep all my conversations confidential, including this one. Okay?”

  She thought about it a moment. “Fine.”

  “When you two were together, was Clint doing drugs?”

  “Just pot,” she said.

  “He sell it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you think of anybody who was around him, might have been a seller?”

  “It’s legal. You can get it anywhere.”

  “Not if you’re sixteen,” I said. “Who might he have bought from?”

  “Could be anybody, I guess.”

  “That’s the way it is now, huh?”

  Another shrug.

  I said, “I couldn’t help but notice you have a boyfriend.”

  She stiffened. “You were watching?”

  “I was just sitting in my car. It was kind of out there in the open.”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  I put my hands up. Delicacy was in order. “You’re right, Bianca. It’s just a habit I have, gathering information for my clients. Here, take this card.” I held it out and approached her slowly. She took it. I stepped back. “Clint’s in trouble and maybe you can help him. If you think of anything, or anyone, please call. Mr. Rosen, his lawyer, can get hold of me twenty-four seven.”

  She nodded. Sadly it seemed. Could have been she was genuinely concerned about Clint and wished she could help. Or maybe she did know something and wasn’t ready to talk.

  A car zoomed into the driveway. A black Escalade. A man got out and slammed the door.

  “What is this?” he said.

  Bianca said, “Daddy, this man says I have to go to court.”

  He glared at me. He looked like a guy who could handle himself
in a low-level fight if the conditions were right. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Mike Romeo. I work for the lawyer representing Clint Cunningham.”

  “Clint?” Daddy said. “What’s he done now?”

  “Now?” I said.

  “Last time he was here he broke a bottle of really good wine.”

  “That was an accident, Daddy.”

  “A two-hundred-dollar accident.”

  I said, “Clint’s been arrested for selling drugs.”

  “Not surprised,” Daddy said.

  “Why not, if I may ask?”

  “He’s a little out there,” he said, making a flitting gesture with his hand.

  “He is not,” Bianca said. “He just doesn’t fit in.”

  Daddy looked at me and said, “You threatening my daughter?”

  I shook my head. “All I want is information to help my client. It’s always better to get it through cooperation.”

  He looked down. “What’s that say on your arm?”

  I held it up. “Vincit Omnia Veritas.”

  “Latin?”

  “Truth conquers all things.”

  A half-smile full of skepticism crooked his mouth. “Yeah, like anybody believes that.”

  “There’s a few of us left,” I said.

  “All right,” he said. “Bianca, is there anything you can tell him that might be helpful?”

  She shook her head.

  Daddy gave me a palms up, nothing-to-see-here gesture.

  “Maybe I can ask you a question or two,” I said.

  “Maybe not,” Daddy said. “Maybe it’s time for you to go.”

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult,” I said.

  “You got what you came for, which is nothing,” he said.

  “Think about it, Bianca,” I said. “Clint’s in real trouble.”

  “She doesn’t have to think about anything,” Daddy said.

  “Not anything? Is that what they teach at Elias?”

  “Get off my property,” he said.

  I looked at the girl. “Is that the way you want it?”

  Before she could answer, Daddy pushed my shoulder. That was a mistake, and he knew it, because he immediately backed away.

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

  “Trouble is the interest you’ll pay by ignoring the truth.”

  He just looked at me. I get that a lot.