Page 12

12

MICHAEL

B ack at police headquarters, I flip through photograph after photograph, each one a little grittier than the last. The crime scene from Who’s Your Caddy has been fully processed by the crime scene unit, and these are some of the official photos they took.

There's something to be said about viewing crime scene pictures on the standard paper used for evidence and those that have been digitized into the computer. Paper is great, but when you can’t zoom in, it makes it difficult. I can’t believe how many times I’ve tried to use my fingers to enlarge them. Lucky for me, no one else saw me doing it or they’d probably question if I should still have my gun.

"Do you have these uploaded into our database yet?" I ask my partner, Joe Brighten. "I see a fleck of something in the grass, but I can’t make it out."

"Getting old, partner," he says. "Should I be putting in for a replacement with the chief?"

"Don’t start, Joe. You’re only six months younger than I am and not nearly as handsome."

Joe laughs and slides an electronic pad over to me. "The photos are all uploaded to the system. I’ve already gone through them with a fine-tooth comb, and I’m telling you there isn’t anything else to see."

Frustrated, I swipe through the images one by one until I come to the one I’ve been questioning. There it is at the upper right-hand corner of the image, a yellow dot of some kind. Zooming in, I still need to squint a bit to make it out clearly. Thankfully, the more I enlarge the image, the easier it is to make out.

The yellow blob comes into perfect view, revealing itself as the plastic tip of a sword. It’s the kind used to stab through olives and fruit when making alcoholic drinks. Less common on a golf course and more readily available at the bar.

"See," I say. "Right there." Pointing to the ribbed hilt of the plastic sword, the rest of the piece extended past the frame. "Was there one of those little plastic swords used to hold fruit in the drinks logged into the evidence locker?"

"Let me check the inventory," Joe says, typing commands into the computer. A few minutes pass as he scrolls through pages of data before he turns back to me. "Yes, it’s been labeled unknown yellow plastic piece."

"Have we checked with the bar at the club? To see if they carry that same line and color of plastic for their cocktails?"

Joe shakes his head. "I doubt it because of the way it’s labeled. Whoever collected the data had no real idea what it was, and it’s too early for them to have processed everything. You know how they start globally and work their way down to the incidental unknown or unidentified pieces."

"True," I say. "I have a strong feeling about this one."

"That’s definitely something we can pursue on our end." Joe grabs his keys. "Want to go down there now? Rustle some feathers?"

I smile and nod. "Better than sitting around finger popping our assholes."

We both laugh and walk out the door. Once we make our way through the precinct, we exit into the parking structure where Joe’s police-issued, unmarked car is waiting. We both hop in, and I sit back as Joe reverses out of the parking spot, puts the car in drive, and squeals the tires as he enters traffic.

The streets of Los Angeles are packed, as they usually are during the day. Bumper to bumper, we inch forward at a snail’s pace. I reach for the radio to break the monotony, but Joe stops me.

"I have to ask you something and I don’t want you to get all weird like you normally do," he says, turning to look me in the face.

Oh geez, here it comes. He wants to ask me a question about being gay. Or tell me he doesn’t think I act gay or something equally as stupid. As much as I love my partner, he wasn’t raised in Los Angeles and even admitted he hadn’t known any people who were openly gay until we became partners at work. At the time, I didn’t believe him, but since getting to know him better, he really is clueless. Clearly, he was raised under a rock, but I don’t always feel like being the one to educate him.

"What can I do for you?" I ask with a sigh.

"See," he says. "You’re already making it weird. I don’t know why whenever I ask you about your personal life you get so awkward. We’re partners. We’re supposed to be close. As close as brothers."

I lay my head back against the rest and close my eyes for a moment. "You know what? You’re absolutely right." I look at my watch. "At this rate, it should take us another twenty minutes or so to get to the club, so ask away. What would you like to know?"

"We’ve been partners now for like five years and I have not heard you once talk about going on a date."

"That’s not true," I say. "I’ve told you about a couple of my dates. Like that one a few years back from the dating app you suggested. Remember?"

He laughs. "A few years back? You count that as being open about your dating life? Are you telling me you haven’t been dating anyone steadily in the five years we’ve been friends?"

"Not exactly," I say. "I’ve been out on dates. Sometimes, they even turn into second dates." I shrug. "Joe, you have it easy. You’re straight and married. You’re not in the dating scene like me. I hate the bar scene. I’ve tried pretty much every single app I’ve heard of, but nothing ever comes of it."

Joe doesn’t say anything at first as he turns left to get on the freeway. "You’re a good-looking guy with a hell of a great job. You’re smart, talented. What more do people want?"

I shrug.

"Maybe it’s not so much about the people you’re attracting on these dating websites, and more about what you’re looking for?"

"What do you mean?" I’ve honestly never heard my partner get deeper than a philosophical rant about the condiment ratio on Mister Bucky’s Cheeseburgers.

"You’re thirty-five years old. You’ve accomplished a lot already in your life and you’re ready to settle down. Right?" He takes his eyes off the road long enough to stare me down, eyebrows raised into two perfectly peaked arches.

It’s my turn to remain silent as I turn away from him and look out the window. The traffic has lightened quite a bit, and I watch as cars pass us at speeds no one would be going if we were in a marked patrol vehicle.

"Michael," he says. "Once you’re honest with yourself about what you’re looking for in a relationship… you’ll start attracting the right kind of people. I know it was that way with me."

I snicker. "You met your wife at the club… didn’t you?"

"I didn’t say you should join a church, man." He shakes his head. "What I’m trying to say is if you’re looking for a partner, someone to settle down with, maybe adopt some children…"

"Hey," I say. "I never said anything about wanting kids."

He laughs. "I know. I know. But you get what I’m trying to tell you… right?"

"If you’re telling me that I need to open myself up more, be more honest with myself, and stop dating losers, then yep. I hear you loud and clear."

Joe pulls the car into the club parking area and turns off the engine. "I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re still trying to make light of this, but I want you to know I hope one of these days to see you happy. To find what I know you’ve been looking for… which is your forever person."

Finding my forever. I do like the sound of that. Not going to lie to myself anymore, that's for sure. Life is too damn short and I’m tired of the dating scene. Looking over at Joe, I can tell this hasn't been the easiest conversation to bring up, but he looks relieved to have said something that’s clearly been weighing on his mind. Maybe he’s worried I’ll end up a bitter old man who yells at his children, or breaks a hip chasing down neighbor kids for being on my lawn. Am I really that unhappy?

"Joe," I say as we get out of the car.

He turns to me. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Talking to me about this. I know you are my partner, but I kind of feel like we're brothers now. Which is something I've not had in my life before—someone I could talk to unconditionally. Truly be myself around."

"I'm glad I could help." He shuts the car door. "Not going to lie though. After I tell my wife we've had this conversation, she's going to start searching for the perfect guy for you. If you get an invitation to dinner at our house… you've already been warned."

"Wait," I say. "Hold off on that. Let Susan know I am more than happy to have her play matchmaker, but I've got someone I'm taking to the Lady Dame concert this weekend."

"Oh?" He wags his eyebrows at me.

"Yeah, I met him at the coffee shop the other day."

"Nice," he says. "So, someone decent and not on one of those hookup apps? Not that I'm judging you."

I laugh. "Of course you're not."

"What's this guy's name? Do I need to run a background check on him?"

If I was Joe, I would have been the same way. No way would I have let my partner and friend out on the town without checking the guy… or gal, out first.

"Honestly, I don't know his last name."

"Huh?"

"Right? I'm trying things differently this time. Can't keep doing the same old thing and expecting a different result. That'd be crazy… or so I'm told."

Joe nods, and I can tell he's thinking about what I've said for a few moments. "I'm looking forward to a full report when you get back from the concert. Honestly, I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks, man." I shut my car door. "Shall we go inside and solve a murder?"

"Let's do this," he says and starts hoofing it toward the front entrance.

As we walk side by side up the drive to the Who's Your Caddy Country Club, I pat Joe on the belly. "I know I'm six months older than you, but we have to do something about this tire you're growing around your waist."

"Hey, don't fat shame me." Joe feigns being upset.

"No, buddy. I want you to be able to chase down suspects with me for years to come. There's no way I want to break in another partner if you go and have a heart attack on me."

"My wife cooks with lard, Michael. You've tasted her carnitas."

"Delicious," I say, my stomach reminding me I haven't eaten lunch yet. "Maybe we should get something from the taco stand later?"

"The one outside Burger Barn?"

I see the way his eyes glaze over and know he's thinking about the way the owner of the taco truck shaved the meat right off the bone in front of us—thin slivers of deliciously seasoned meat filling a street-sized corn tortilla, almost no room for anything but salsa and maybe a sprinkle of cotija cheese.

"Don't tell my wife," he says. "We're supposed to go out to dinner with her parents tonight. If she finds out I filled up on Mexican food when we're going to an El Salvadorian restaurant tonight, she will cut me." He grabs my arm and stops me for a second. “I’m serious… she’ll cut me, bro.”

I laugh. "Your secret is safe with me." Throwing my hands up in mock fear of what his wife might do, I share a laugh with him, and we start back toward the entrance to the country club.

We finally make it from the guest parking to the front door. We stop and take a deep breath, slowly letting it out before we keep moving. It was something we both regularly did to calm our nerves and get into character, of sorts. We have to play the part of serious detectives, and while we are, nobody likes a hard-ass.

We walk into the club and are immediately approached by the concierge. "Is there something I can do for you, gentlemen?" the tiny woman wearing an all-white uniform and carrying a towel asks as she approaches us. Her name tag reads: Tonya Bishop and beneath her name, Manager.

"We'd like to speak with your bartender, if you don't mind," Joe says.

"Do you have memberships?"

I flash my badge, smile, and say, "Official police business, ma'am."

Her eyes widen, and she immediately gets on the radio she carries attached to her back pocket. "Is, J.B. here?" she says into the radio.

Static and then silence is the only answer to her question.

"Ugh," she says. "We've been a little short-staffed as of late, but I can show you where to go for the bar. I know he's here, but not always responsive."

Her face is red and blotchy, and it's obvious she's embarrassed by the lack of respect her staff shows her. The woman is short, but she sure can move fast. Her tiny legs turning over at a surprising speed. I look over at my partner to make sure he isn't having difficulty keeping up with her. I also want to tap his belly again and give him the look but decide against it. It wouldn’t be right to do here, but when we get back to the car, I’ll remind him to have no more than three street tacos and not his usual six.

"Here you are, gentlemen," Tonya says, sweeping her arm in the direction of the bar. "I can provide you with a free drink if you'd like?"

"Very kind of you, ma'am, but we're on duty." Joe crosses his arms and looks side to side. "Where's… J.B.?"

"I'll radio for him to meet you here. I assume he's on a break." She checks her watch. "Not that he's scheduled for one until later, but then again… short-staffed."

"Certainly," I say, watching her face turn a deep blotchy red. "We'll wait here."

Tonya hurries away with the radio pressed against her chin, and it's obvious she's quietly berating someone on the other end. We step up to the bar and have a look around while we wait.

"I don't see anything that looks like the little plastic sword from the picture," he says. "Do all bars use them?"

"Not all of them," I say. "But plain toothpicks are boring, and the umbrellas are usually just tossed in as art these days."

"Hmm," he says, looking over the counter. "Look down there." Joe points to the open cabinet at the back of the bar. "There's supplies in there."

"What can I help you with, officers?" a voice comes from behind us.

We both turn as this good-looking dark-haired man with a decent body steps closer to us. He’s dressed in the white and blue uniform with short shorts. The way his muscular thighs flex and release with each step makes me swallow hard. Something about this guy tells me he’s got the dates lining up for him.

"J.B.?" Joe asks.

J.B. sticks out his hand, and we take turns greeting him with a firm handshake. "That's me," he says. "Tonya said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Well, yeah," I say. "We had a few questions about your supplies here at the bar."

"Does this have to do with the murder that happened by the water trap?" he asks.

I nod.

"Sure does," Joe says. "We're still actively investigating."

"Oh," he says. "For some reason, I thought it was all over and done since you guys took down the yellow caution tape and hadn't been back in a couple of days."

I can see how someone would think as he does, but it can't be further from the truth. We'll be lucky if the investigation is completed within the next few months. Especially since we have so little to go on, this could be one of those cases that remain open but cold for quite some time. Years, in fact. Although, there's no way I'll let this guy know it.

"You're the bartender here, is that correct?" I ask.

"Yep," he nods. "There are a few of us, but I'm the one on duty today until early afternoon. Then I head to another job."

“Oh,” I ask.

“Yeah, can’t make rent unless I have a side-gig,” he says with a smile. “It’s Los Angeles, and I wasn’t born to one of those rich families.”

"Got it," Joe says with a knowing nod. Neither he or I were born with a silver spoon in our mouths. "I'm curious… the mixed drinks… do you put umbrellas in them?"

"Sometimes," he says. "Just depends on the drink."

"Okay," I say. "How do you make your Mia Tia? Do you put fresh fruit in them?"

J.B. cocks his head to the side. He's trying to figure out where our inquiries are leading, which isn't that unusual when questioning witnesses. "Yep. We put pineapple in them, but honestly, our clientele is very particular. They'll ask for all kinds of things to garnish their drinks. Berries, oranges, pineapple, peaches. You name it. This isn’t a place where we get to say no when a reasonable request is made." He uses air quotes and a roll of his eyes to get his point across loud and clear.

"Sounds high maintenance," I say, trying to make him feel we're on his side of things.

J.B. laughs and nods. "Don't let my boss hear you say that. She gets pissy when we talk about the clients in a negative light."

I nod. "What do you use to keep the fruit from falling to the bottom of the glass? Do you use the umbrella? Or a toothpick?"

He nods and walks around to the back of the bar. He bends down and pulls out a box, opening it. "We usually use these things." He pulls out a plastic toothpick in the shape of a golf club. "Management tries to be cute and make the drink names match the theme of this place. It's all golf-related. For example, our Mai Tai is called Mai Tee Tai."

Joe and I glance at each other. It's a dead end, but also interesting that a toothpick with a sword was found at the crime scene which couldn’t have been supplied here. After all, swords have nothing to do with golf. Which leads us to ask, where has it come from?

"That's all we have for you today," Joe says. "I'm sure you were questioned by the police already, is that correct?"

J.B. nods. "Yeah, they asked me a ton of questions that next morning. Pretty scary that something like that can happen here. I mean, this is supposed to be a classy place."

"Murderers don't always care how much money you have or how classy your establishment is," I say, handing him my business card. "If you hear anything at all pertaining to the murders, don't hesitate to call me… day or night."

He looks at the card and then puts it into his pocket. "I sure will."

Joe and I turn and walk out of the club. Something about the image depiction of a yellow plastic drink toothpick is eating away at me, but I can't figure out why. My stomach growls, pulling me out of my train of thought.

"Time for tacos," I say, patting my stomach.

"Get in my belly," Joe says and picks up the pace to the car.

Once we sit inside, he starts the engine and speeds out of the parking lot. He doesn’t even slow down at the first turn, but somehow manages not to take it on two wheels. Clearly, I’m not the only one who’s hungry.

"Thanks again, Joe. Our conversation earlier about my dating life actually made me feel better knowing you're in my corner. And that I can come to you with anything."

"Anytime, buddy," he says as he pulls out into traffic. "Now, let's go get some grub."