sleep, the twitchy one bouncing up and down, struggling to stay open. But Toast let it happen and drifted away for a little snooze.
I went back to Vonz’s question. Would they find out who killed Suzanne? She was a compelling woman. Vonz was right. So engaging. She affected you—in seconds. It was fascinating really. That charm, that energy.
But what was her story? What was she hiding? How did all that stuff I’d seen connect together to make sense, to give a reason for her death? Jimmy Yates. That trip to Mulholland. The man on her balcony.
Was I going to look into this myself? That was the question, wasn’t it? I met her face-to-face right before she got killed. I saw with my own eyes the activity before the murder.
Even if we don’t like to admit it sometimes, we want to know what happened to people we care about. Exactly what happened. And if it was something bad, we want the people who did it to pay. Vonz cared about Suzanne. And even I cared about Suzanne. I’d looked into her eyes and joked around with her on a beautiful Southern California day. I wanted whoever did it to pay. Turn the other cheek? No thanks. I wanted her killer to pay. I know Vonz wanted it too. He left that out of his discourse on love, but I know he wanted it too.
I thought, Darvelle, listen to yourself. Investigate the case. Go. Now. Do it.
So I did.
14
T o work effectively as a private investigator you need connections. People who can give you information you otherwise couldn’t get. Reporters, people in real estate, people who work at the courts, people who have access. Sometimes it’s a cop, sometimes an ex-criminal, and, yes, sometimes it’s a current criminal. You’ve seen me use a few of these already. It takes a long, long time to create, and then to nurture, these relationships. Because most of the people who work in and around my world are pretty jaded fucks. Not Linda Robbie. She’s not jaded. She’s horny, but she’s not jaded. But most of my connections are. Even so, the truth is, if you give back, if you show you can keep a secret, if people know you’re in it for the right reasons, and you’re there to help them sometimes too, they want to help you out. Yep, another irony, folks. The jaded ones are the hardest to get through to, but once you do, once you prove yourself, they usually end up being the most helpful. Trust me, you still have to go through the dance. Even after they trust you. It’s almost comical. You get reminded that you’re being helped, told you’re a pain in the ass, told over and over and over that passing along information, that bending a rule, is putting their job on the line.
But the truth is, when you, or your connections, help someone out in a not-necessarily-legal way, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. And everyone inside the circle believes that. Because you know and they know it has to happen sometimes to keep the fight alive.
And we are all in this to keep the fight alive.
One of my connections is a guy named Elliot Watt. You guessed it—he works at the morgue. He shows me pictures. He gives me the coroner’s report. He tries to help me. And I pay him off in various ways. Cash, a front-row seat at a show Gary’s directing, sometimes just the skinny on what I found out because of his help.
I drove to the morgue. A strange place most people never see. A building full of drawers with dead bodies in them. Next time you drive by the morgue in your town, think about that. A massive dresser full of dead, formaldehyde-injected bodies. With arms and legs and eyes and hearts. It’s pretty damn creepy if you let yourself focus on it.
I walked in and Elliot got up from behind his desk. He looked like a morgue guy. A very thin man with deep-set blue bug eyes, black hair, pale pasty skin, a big mouth with too many big teeth. Maybe he looked like that and then just said to himself: You know what? I look like a morgue guy. I’m going to go get a job at the morgue.
“Yo,
I went back to Vonz’s question. Would they find out who killed Suzanne? She was a compelling woman. Vonz was right. So engaging. She affected you—in seconds. It was fascinating really. That charm, that energy.
But what was her story? What was she hiding? How did all that stuff I’d seen connect together to make sense, to give a reason for her death? Jimmy Yates. That trip to Mulholland. The man on her balcony.
Was I going to look into this myself? That was the question, wasn’t it? I met her face-to-face right before she got killed. I saw with my own eyes the activity before the murder.
Even if we don’t like to admit it sometimes, we want to know what happened to people we care about. Exactly what happened. And if it was something bad, we want the people who did it to pay. Vonz cared about Suzanne. And even I cared about Suzanne. I’d looked into her eyes and joked around with her on a beautiful Southern California day. I wanted whoever did it to pay. Turn the other cheek? No thanks. I wanted her killer to pay. I know Vonz wanted it too. He left that out of his discourse on love, but I know he wanted it too.
I thought, Darvelle, listen to yourself. Investigate the case. Go. Now. Do it.
So I did.
14
T o work effectively as a private investigator you need connections. People who can give you information you otherwise couldn’t get. Reporters, people in real estate, people who work at the courts, people who have access. Sometimes it’s a cop, sometimes an ex-criminal, and, yes, sometimes it’s a current criminal. You’ve seen me use a few of these already. It takes a long, long time to create, and then to nurture, these relationships. Because most of the people who work in and around my world are pretty jaded fucks. Not Linda Robbie. She’s not jaded. She’s horny, but she’s not jaded. But most of my connections are. Even so, the truth is, if you give back, if you show you can keep a secret, if people know you’re in it for the right reasons, and you’re there to help them sometimes too, they want to help you out. Yep, another irony, folks. The jaded ones are the hardest to get through to, but once you do, once you prove yourself, they usually end up being the most helpful. Trust me, you still have to go through the dance. Even after they trust you. It’s almost comical. You get reminded that you’re being helped, told you’re a pain in the ass, told over and over and over that passing along information, that bending a rule, is putting their job on the line.
But the truth is, when you, or your connections, help someone out in a not-necessarily-legal way, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. And everyone inside the circle believes that. Because you know and they know it has to happen sometimes to keep the fight alive.
And we are all in this to keep the fight alive.
One of my connections is a guy named Elliot Watt. You guessed it—he works at the morgue. He shows me pictures. He gives me the coroner’s report. He tries to help me. And I pay him off in various ways. Cash, a front-row seat at a show Gary’s directing, sometimes just the skinny on what I found out because of his help.
I drove to the morgue. A strange place most people never see. A building full of drawers with dead bodies in them. Next time you drive by the morgue in your town, think about that. A massive dresser full of dead, formaldehyde-injected bodies. With arms and legs and eyes and hearts. It’s pretty damn creepy if you let yourself focus on it.
I walked in and Elliot got up from behind his desk. He looked like a morgue guy. A very thin man with deep-set blue bug eyes, black hair, pale pasty skin, a big mouth with too many big teeth. Maybe he looked like that and then just said to himself: You know what? I look like a morgue guy. I’m going to go get a job at the morgue.
“Yo,
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