Goodbye Natalie

Chapter Twentytwo: Shadow of Despair

     Darla Jones’s murderous, cunning nature was only matched by her grace under pressure. It’s what made her a valuable and in-demand ICU nurse. It’s also what made her a lethal, remorseless killer. Yet, even the calm-under-fire Darla Jones had been on pins and needles the past three days and it wasn’t the stress of working double shifts in the Intensive Care Unit at Cedars Sinai Hospital that was the cause. The police had been sniffing around her Nickerson Gardens apartment, knocking on the door, calling on the phone, and she knew for damn certain it had something to do with her no-good polecat husband Mudcat. When she heard Slick Petway had turned up dead with his throat cut, the same day Mudcat had taken off, still half-dead himself from fresh gunshot wounds, she put two and two together and went into survival mode.

     First thing was to clear out the apartment of anything and everything belonging to Mudcat; clothes, papers, drugs, guns, jewelry. She also wrapped up her own varied sets of i.d. and disguises, and any stolen or misappropriated items that might link her to any malfeasance. Everything was tossed into two large garbage bags and dropped off at storage. Next, she signed up for all the overtime nursing shifts available, which were plentiful due to the nursing shortage. An experienced ICU nurse, temp or not, can get all the O.T. they want. She worked the double shifts and slept the third shift in the nurse’s dorm right in the hospital. With the huge overtime checks, at times she wondered why she bothered with the nursing home insurance scams. Still, it took a year of back-breaking labor to earn seventy-five to a hundred-thousand gross as a nurse, while she could slip an overdose of prescription meds to an elderly patient, after making a deal with the next-of-kin and net nearly as much in a couple of weeks. In the case of no relatives, any unscrupulous attorney would be glad to draw up a last will and testament of an aging invalid, leaving whatever to whoever, as long as he got his cut. It’s cold, but it’s real life.

     Of course, she couldn’t go with the accidental overdose routine every time. Mudcat had been an able and willing accomplice in providing more violent demise in several instances. Darla had stockpiled a nice little nest egg with her share, while Cat had frittered away his money on dope and hoes and gambling. She figured that a few more fat scores and she’d have enough to hop a flight to Jamaica and never set foot in California again.

     Now, Mudcat’s antics had Five-0 on his trail and Darla was suspicious of everyone. She was on high-alert and ready to run at the drop of a hat. When the Po-Po had come knocking, she took one look through the peephole and silently slipped out the patio door, through the maze of corridors of the complex and two blocks away where she had the Cadillac parked. She’d been weighing her options and leaning on the side of getting ghost, when one of her more influencing traits pulled her in its inescapable direction. It had been the hubbub of activity and excitement filling the sterile corridors of the hospital that aroused Darla’s greed. Word spread fast that the famous movie star, Vivian Valentine, had been rushed into ICU with a stroke or heart-attack. While doctors and nurses frantically performed efficient E.R. medical procedures to diagnose and save Vivian’s life, Darla called up her own years of professional experience to estimate the value of the jewelry items the dying star had worn to her deathbed.

     The Rolex Oyster-Perpetual, jewel-encrusted gold Gucci tennis bracelet, diamond and white-gold Cartier earrings and what appeared to be a two-and-a- half or three carat dinner ring that the old lady was wearing; Darla rang up a value of at least a hundred-grand like a seasoned ”Price is Right” contestant in a Showcase Showdown. The fact they were being worn by a potentially dying Hollywood legend, priceless. Darla eyed the feeble actress like a fat man at a Vegas buffet. She’d be working overtime tonight...and she’d be keeping a close eye on Vivian Valentine.

* * *

     Fallon Dawn strained her neck back and looked up the face of the mammoth high-rise office building at five-twenty-five Market Street, the last address of the list of leads Vivian Valentine had provided. If she didn’t get something tangible to help her find Frankie here, she didn’t know what she was going to do. She was sick and tired of the dead ends and roadblocks and was questioning not only her tactics and abilities, but her motives as well. There must be a better way to make a living.

     In the impressive, polished-granite lobby she was stopped by security at the desk. ”You need a pass to get in ma’am.” Said the guard tersely.

     ”I’m here to see Mr. Stuyvesant at Stuyvesant Accounting, twentieth floor.” She pulled out a business card. ”I’m on a case.” Fallon said.

     The guard looked at her sternly, took the card and picked up the phone. ”This is Nelson at the front desk. There’s a Fallon Hunter here to see Mr. Stuyvesant, she’s a private investigator.” He listened for a moment then hung up the phone. ”Someone will be with you shortly ma’am, the secretary is coming down.”

     As Fallon waited self-consciously in the busy lobby, she studied the mass of office workers scurrying to and fro, passing through the security checkpoint by scanning their magnetic strip, credit card size badges. They crowded into the elevators in droves and spilt out like rivers of humanity from an open dam, all well-dressed and fastidiously groomed, wearing expensive shoes and carrying expensive coats and leather briefcases, chatting with co-workers and friends as they passed. For a moment, she wondered if her life could ever be so orderly. In by nine, a fifteen-minute coffee break mid-morning, lunch and back to work. Home in time to microwave a Lean Cuisine lasagna for the hubby and kids, do dishes, drink a glass of wine and lay next to the same person every night, then get up and do it all again. Could she do that? Did she want to? Running around with Kwan, yachting with Vivian, being followed by murderers and lied to by everyone she interviewed... was the comfort and security of a nice home and family an even trade for the danger and adventure? She didn’t know.

     An energetic, fast-moving blue-eyed girl with an extremely short haircut, grey suit and large-rimmed glasses exited the elevator and approached Nelson. He pointed Fallon out and the girl stepped over to her. ”Miss Hunter? I’m Shelly, Mr. Stuyvesant’s secretary. I’m sorry, this is a secure bank building, the main executive offices...we’re one of the few independent businesses but we seldom have walk-in clients or visitors. Mr. Stuyvesant isn’t available today, but if you’ll give me your number and tell me what this is in regards to, I’ll set an appointment.”

     Fallon clearly saw she wasn’t gaining access to Emerald City and decided to get what she could from the gatekeeper. ”Are you familiar with Vivian Valentine, Shelly?” Fallon asked.

    ”Yes, she’s a client of Mr. Stuyvesant.” Replied Shelly.

     ”A client? Is that all?” Asked Fallon.

     ”I believe they go back a ways. Mr. Stuyvesant has handled Ms. Valentine’s financial affairs for some years. You’re a P.I.? That must be extremely interesting.” Said Shelly.

     ”It’s awfully noisy here Shelly, do you have time to get coffee?” Fallon offered. Shelly checked her watch and accepted the invitation gratefully.

     Over cappuccino and muffins the talkative Shelly willingly shared whatever information she knew on Stuyvesant Accounting and the relationship to Vivian Valentine. It turned out, Vivian’s second husband had been a major partner in Fox Studios and when he died, left substantial stock, equity and assets to Vivian. In recent years she had begun to withdraw from the public eye and as her fame receded, her wealth multiplied under the careful attention of Mr. Stuyvesant. Vivian took little interest in money matters and everything requiring payment was made through Stuyvesant.

     ”How recently has Vivian been in touch with Stuyvesant?” Fallon asked.

     ”It’s been a while, I can’t recall the last time she called.” Said Shelly.

     ”What about Frankie? Do you know the son?” Fallon inquired.

     ”Only by name, he’s not involved in the estate planning or day-to-day. He was mailed an allowance monthly until age eighteen. From what I’ve heard, the kid didn’t want anything to do with the money, or the mother. He’s never contacted us for anything that I’m aware of.” Shelly answered truthfully. ”Is that why Vivian hired you? To find Frankie?”

     Fallon didn’t answer, she was lost in thought. It made sense, Vivian was getting older and wanted to make sure the estate went to family. That might be a lot of the motivation in her hiring Fallon.

     ”Would there be anyone else eligible, for inheritance? Is there a will?” Fallon asked.

     ”I don’t know.” Said Shelly. ”I wouldn’t be privy to that though, Mr. Stuyvesant would know all that. But, with that much money, you have to believe there’ll be a lot of people interested in the health and welfare of Ms. Valentine.”

     Fallon wasn’t sure of the significance of these latest revelations, nor why Vivian had listed Stuyvesant as a possible lead in tracking Frankie. But, it certainly was material to be filed away in her already crowded memory banks. She decided it might be a good time to check in with Vivian and bought a roll of quarters from the waitress to use at the payphones. She thanked Shelly for the talk and gave her the hotel number, asking her to call if Frankie got in contact. She’d set an appointment with Stuyvesant later, if need be.

     Shelly was in a hurry when she returned to the office building but was held up at the security desk, searching her purse and pockets for her security badge. Nelson eyed her critically. ”Lose your badge Shel?”

     ”I had it clipped on my purse, I’m sure of it.” Whined Shelly.

     Nelson tossed a temporary pass across the desk. ”Try to be more careful Shelly.”

     Back at the payphones, Fallon deposited several quarters into the slot and dialed Vivian Valentine’s number in the Hollywood Hills. The maid answered.

     ”Hello.”

     ”This is Fallon Hunter, may I speak with Vivian please?”

     ”She no here Miss Hunter, she in hospital.”

     ”What!?” The news shocked Fallon deeply. ”What happened? Is she alright?”

     ”She leave message for you Miss Hunter, Ms. Valentine say, you no worry, you stay on case...you find Frankie.” Said the maid in broken English.

     ”But, why’s she in the hospital?” Pressed Fallon.

     ”I don’t know Miss Hunter, she old lady, she very tired.”

     ”What hospital?” Asked Fallon.

     ”Cedars Miss.” Replied the maid.

     ”Did she say anything else? Any other message?” Said Fallon.

     The sound of rustling papers could be heard over the line as the maid hurriedly searched through bits of paper. ”No more message for you Miss.”

     Fallon tried a shot in the dark. ”Did Frankie happen to call?”

     ”No Miss, Frankie no call.” Said the maid.

     Fallon stood in a dazed trace, the news that her benefactor had suffered enough of an episode to require hospitalization left her stunned.

     The maid spoke. ”Only message from Frankie’s girlfriend...says, ’Tell Frankie to call me’.”

     Fallon’s ears perked up. ”Wait...what was that again?” Fallon asked excitedly.

    ”Frankie girlfriend, Mirna say to call her.” Said the maid.

     ”Is there a number?” Fallon asked hopefully.

     ”Yes miss.” The maid recited the phone number, the area code was from San Francisco. Fallon scribbled down the information and left her own number, telling the maid to contact her immediately if anything developed, and asked her to have Vivian call if she could. She then dialed the San Francisco number Mirna had left. It was a hotel in the Tenderloin section, near her own hotel, she asked the clerk for the address and rushed out into the chilly air. She barely noticed it was beginning to rain. Finally, a possible solid lead on the elusive Frankie. As she dodged pedestrian traffic, hope and trepidation battled for dominance in her thoughts. The elation of the lead was tempered by concern for Vivian.

     She covered the blocks quickly, locating Mirna’s hotel on Hyde Street without much difficulty. At the desk, a twenty-dollar bribe enabled her to find out which room Mirna was in. The clerk recognized the general description, a young Hispanic girl, possibly checking in with a tall, good-looking Caucasian. She rode the tiny elevator to the third floor and found the room. She listened at the door briefly, no sounds came from within. She knocked softly, then louder...no answer.

     Refusing to let got of the substantial lead, Fallon drew upon a simple lock-picking technique from Alan’s manuals. She pulled Shelly’s security badge from her purse and slid it between the door frame and lock and applied firm pressure as she pulled on the doorknob. The flimsy lock proved little resistance and in seconds she was standing in the dingy room. It was dark and quiet and a little bit eerie. There was a worn-out bed with a thin blanket, a single dresser and mirror and not much else. A small suitcase lay unpacked on the bed.

     Fallon searched the contents of the suitcase. A few clothing items, some cosmetics, some family mementos, a picture of a young Mirna and her parents, another of Mirna and Frankie at the beach, a box of knick-knacks, a pregnancy test...used. Based on what she’d seen, Fallon determined Mirna was alone. There were no men’s clothing or personal effects. The unpacked suitcase meant she might not be here for long, and the results of the pregnancy test made Fallon’s heart weep in sympathy. Mirna was alone and pregnant. Since she’d left a message for Frankie to call at Vivian’s all the way in southern California, the inevitable conclusion was that Frankie was gone.

     She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and wrote a brief message, telling Mirna that she was a friend of Vivian Valentine and to please contact her at her hotel immediately. She quietly closed the door behind her and slipped the note underneath. She sincerely hoped Mirna would call.

     As she stepped back out into the now threatening weather, her mind was muddled and her spirits deflated at the lack of progress resulting from the promising leads. She couldn’t get the picture of Mirna and Frankie out of her mind. Mirna was smiling broadly and hanging onto Frankie like he was her shining prince. Frankie was solemn and looking away. Although the symbolism hit Fallon right in the gut...the starry-eyed Mirna evidently completely missed the cue that Frankie’s attention, and heart, were elsewhere.

* * *

     When she got back to her own hotel room, Kwan wasn’t there. Fallon tossed her bag and coat on the bed and boiled water for tea. In the dismal, dark emptiness of the cheap hotel room, she felt isolated, small and impotent. She imagined Mirna must be feeling scared and alone.

     The steady click-clack of the second-hand clock radio on the nightstand that Kwan had been so proud of getting for a good price, relentlessly ticked on, a reminder that time continues onward, taking no breaks for human convenience or need. A sinister foreboding crept into Fallon’s consciousness like the dim warning beacon of a lighthouse through the mist. Something wasn’t right...

     Fate’s grim shadow of despair shrouded her heart, tearing painfully at it’s most tender corners. Fear swept over her like a giant wave crushing a raft of sticks. Her eyes froze on the door and her mind raced with panic... the chain lock...it was broken! Someone had broken in and Kwan was gone!

     All of Fallon’s feigned confidence and bravado fled in the face of the somber recognition that she couldn’t protect anyone...Kwan, Mirna, even her own self. Doubt wrapped its fetid tentacles around her shoulders and gripped at her intestines...she shivered with anxiety. Her odyssey of righteousness had been detoured by the brutal mercilessness of reality.

     The little teddy bear and string puppet sat mute in the corner, mourning the dismal possibilities. Kwan had rescued them from the dusty shelf of a Chinatown thrift shop. Now, their sad wooden eyes begged Fallon to somehow, do the same for her.

* * * * *