Part 6 : Frustration & Surprise
"I've got it, Jess!"
Jesse blinked at Steve's grumbling outburst as he tried to help him out of his car, but persisted anyway, providing a guiding hand to help him to a standing position. Steve could be a little ornery when he wasn't feeling well, although Jesse knew that it was more than his injuries that brought on the bad mood.
He looked across the top of the car at Maeve and shot her a reassuring smile. "He gets this way when he's not in control of the situation. But we love him, anyway."
Maeve chuckled, and lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender as Steve shot a murderous look between the both of them.
"I can make it into the house on my own, thank you very much. It was just a flesh wound." He took a long step out of Jesse's grasp. Jesse knew that the movement had to hurt, but he covered it very well. Only the tightness about his shoulders betrayed him.
Jesse thought to remind him that it was a little more than a flesh wound, that the bullet that had ploughed a furrow along his side had caused considerable blood loss and had taken a number of internal and external stitches. But then he looked over at Maeve and changed his mind, deciding to use another line of reasoning.
"I'm sure you know all of the hand-outs by heart, which means you know that you need to take it easy for a couple of days. No strenuous exercise. No running, no diving. No . . . "
"I do know what to do." Steve continued to complain as they all moved slowly up the walkway toward the front door. "You've drilled them into me so many times that they're practically ringing in my ears."
"Good," Jesse teased. "I'm glad you know, 'cause there's gonna be a test."
Steve paused, and the slightest hint of a grin appeared. He released a small sigh and the tension in his shoulders relaxed a bit. "I want to check the place out before the two of you come in."
Jesse didn't like the sound of that. Steve didn't need to be romping up and down all of the different sets of stairs that made up the Sloan home. "Sorry. No."
Steve's previous moment of good humor evaporated. "What do you mean, no? Dad probably hasn't been here since we all left yesterday. I need to make sure that the coast is clear."
"It's not your checking that I'm worried about, it's your checking it alone. We're coming with you. And you're watching my back while I do any necessary strenuous stuff."
Steve seemed to be fighting an internal battle for several moments, before turning back toward the steps leading up to the front door. "Fine," he muttered tiredly, before placing a protective hand over his side and making the journey up the brick steps.
Jesse remained behind him as silent support if he needed it. He didn't think an outwardly extended hand of aid would be appreciated. Once inside, they made the journey through all of the rooms of the house. Jesse had insisted on doing Steve's apartment last, mostly because that was where he wanted Steve to stay.
Thankfully by the time they'd reached that point, Steve was exhausted and it took a little less convincing than Jesse had expected. Knowing that the lazy boy was going to be much easier on abdominal sutures than was the bed, he got him set up there, and even covered his knees with a blanket.
"Just great. Thanks, Dad," Steve muttered.
"Your sarcasm wounds me," Jesse returned. "Mark entrusted me with getting you home. How's he going to ever trust me again if I don't do all the things that he would do? Now, howzabout a good night huggie?"
"I'm warning you, Jess. Touch me and draw back a nub."
Jesse just laughed and placed the remote control and the telephone nearby. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be right upstairs."
Steve's only reply was a grunt.
-- --
Jesse reached the top of the stairs to find Maeve busy clearing up the kitchen. She looked over at him sheepishly as he entered. "Sorry. It's the least I could do since Mark and Amanda are going to my place to pick up things for me. Besides, I feel as if I'm to blame for what's happened. And now for all of this food spoiling."
Jesse looked around at the remains of the meats that Mark had been preparing the night before. The chicken and steaks were a total loss, but he seemed to recall that Mark had slid the platter of formed hamburger patties back into the refrigerator.
"Well, Mark and Amanda should be back before too long. Why don't we whip up something for lunch? I'll just go start up the grill and then come back and help out in here."
Maeve's smile was relieved and appreciative.
Jesse returned her smile. He knew what it was like to need to feel useful, as if he was helping in some way. Especially under such circumstances as the ones that she was facing. He was sure that Steve hadn't told her that he was now a suspect in her husband and his assistant's murders, but he was fairly certain that she knew that the investigating officer was suspicious of her.
As he approached the balcony doors, his smile faltered. There was crime scene tape along the beach and extending to the area beneath the house. The forensics team had been looking for the bullet that had grazed Steve and investigating the area for other bits of information. Maybe eating outside wasn't such a good idea, after all.
~*~
"Amanda, I really appreciate your meeting me," Mark said as he deftly detached the crime scene tape and fitted a key into the lock of the Michaels' front door. "Maeve wasn't ready to come back here, yet and well, I'm not sure I'd be good at . . . uh . . . "
" . . . picking out women's clothing?" Amanda finished for him. But the look that she gave him was far too knowing. "Admit it, Mark. You want another look at that crime scene."
Mark grinned sheepishly. She knew him well. That or he was becoming transparent in his old age. "Yes, and you got me," he confessed. "I would like another look around. And I'd really like a word with the neighbor."
"Isn't that him?" Amanda asked. "Not shy, is he?"
Mark turned to follow the direction she was pointing in. Sure enough, the neighbor was there, standing in his garage opening, blatantly staring. That gave Mark a thought. If this man watched the house as much as it seemed he did, maybe he had seen something on the day of the murder. Something that may have been missed when he was questioned previously.
"Amanda, why don't you go on inside while I have a talk with him?"
"Sure." Amanda smiled indulgently and took the keys and Maeve's list from him.
"Thanks." Mark returned her smile and set off across the street. As he approached the man began moving back toward the insides of his home.
"Wait. Excuse me? Mr. . . . uh. . . Mr. . . " Mark was embarrassed to admit that he couldn't recall the man's name. He searched his memory as he continued to advance on him.
"Masterson," the man supplied, eyeing him suspiciously. "What are you doing over there? Isn't it a crime scene?"
"Well, yes," Mark admitted. "But I'm a consultant with the Los Angeles Police Department." He pulled out his wallet and showed the identification that they'd issued him. He ignored Masterson's intense examination of the document and continued, "I just wanted to check out a couple of things. And I wanted to have a word with you. Are you a part of the neighborhood watch in this community? I noticed that the signs were very well placed as I drove in."
Masterson looked up and brightened. "Yes, I am. I'm the president, in fact. I'd like to think of myself as the unofficial eyes around here. I've always believed that if one doesn't watch out for his neighbors, then no one will."
Mark nodded. "Uh huh. Well, that's a good attitude to have. We should watch out for each other. And I'm curious. On yesterday morning, did you notice anything suspicious across the street at the Michaels' residence?"
"Aside from all of the police vehicles, you mean?"
"Of course, aside from them."
"Well, no. I had another personal matter to attend to, so I wasn't home on the morning in question. I arrived back shortly after Mrs. Michaels did. I saw her car pulling into the driveway. That would have been at 10:20."
"I see." Mark smiled, storing away the information the other man had communicated. "What time did you leave that morning?"
"7:28."
"How can you be so certain of the exact time?" Mark was curious.
"Because that's the time I always leave. It's a recurring appointment every fourth Friday, and the drive is 45 minutes. I like to be punctual."
"Just where was this appointment, Mr. Masterson?"
"Free & Clear Intestinal Health. In Santa Monica. I have a monthly hydrotherapy session. It works wonders for clearing out the old to make way for the new. If you're looking for someone, I'd be happy to refer you."
Mark stared at the other man for a beat, never dropping his smile, then, "I hear that there were some issues with the Michaels' that the neighborhood association became involved in."
"Oh, yes. There were. They just have to be different. For one thing, they refused to use the lawn service that everyone else uses. The lawn care provider chosen by the neighborhood association is certified environmentally safe. And then there are the plants that they've chosen. They were on the acceptable, but not preferred list this year, which means that they will be unacceptable next year. So, what did they do? They have them planted this year! They're perennials, Doctor Sloan! Do you know what that means?"
" . . . uh, I think . . . "
"They'll still be there next year!" Masterson seemed to have found his element and continued as if Mark hadn't said a thing.
" . . . that's what I thought . . . " Mark tried to cut in.
"That means we're going to have to go through the process of having them removed in order to bring them into compliance. I don't think . . . "
"Mark!" Amanda called from the side of her car, drawing his attention away from the ranting Masterson. She held her pager aloft. "I've got to go. I've been called to another scene."
"Uh . . . Excuse me," Mark waved a hand for attention and was surprised when Masterson immediately quieted.
"You have to go?" he asked.
"Uh, yes. I'm sorry. But thank you for your help."
"No problem. Come back anytime. And don't forget to let me know about that referral."
Mark smiled then waved and headed off down the driveway. He saved his sigh of relief for when he reached the street.
~*~
Steve was woken from a light doze by the sound of footsteps on the way down to his apartment. Mildly irritated at the fact that he'd actually fallen asleep, he turned to see who was descending the stairs.
"Hey, Steve." Jesse's spikily styled head appeared. He was carrying a lap tray laden with a bowl, a saucer and a bottle with a straw sticking out of it.
"Hey, Jess." Steve shot him a look. "Please don't tell me that's broth and toast."
"Okay, I won't. But bear in mind that it's designed to keep you hydrated. Repeat to yourself that your body needs this. Besides, you need to take your meds with food, and this was the best I could do for the moment." Jesse looked around, noting that the television wasn't on and that there was no book in the process of being read. He laughed as he settled the tray across Steve's lap. "You actually took my advice and got some rest? I'm touched."
"I didn't have much of a choice," Steve replied, disgruntled. "It snuck up on me." The meal was exactly what he expected. Boring. The two small pills sitting on the napkin beside the bowl made him feel a little depressed. And the little red and blue balloons all over the straw made him feel like he was five years old. "But someday, when I'm all grown up, and can stay awake, I'm going to get to go upstairs and do stuff like the big people."
Jesse gave him a wry smile. "It's normal to feel a little tired, Steve. And you really don't have to use the straw if you don't want to. I just thought the balloon ones were your favorites."
Steve half chuckled, half sighed, torn between amusement and frustration. "Jesse, I appreciate your help. It's just that there's a lot going on right now, and I feel like I've been side-lined. I know dad is out there somewhere investigating -- regardless of that cover story about picking up stuff -- trying to find the real killer. This person has already murdered two people. He shouldn't be out there on his own."
"Come on, your dad is a smart guy, Steve. If he thinks a situation is going to be too dangerous, I'm sure he'll call, or just get out of there."
"Oh, right. I almost forgot who I was talking to. You're just as bad as he is sometimes."
"And things have always turned out fine."
Steve pressed Jesse with a look.
"Well, mostly," Jesse corrected with a grin. "And Mark did say he'd be here by 1 o'clock, which isn't too far off. I need to run to the store to pick up a couple things to go with the hamburgers. I should beat Mark back. Do you need anything?"
"A beer?"
"I don't think so, buddy," Jesse replied. "Why don't you give him a call? It'll make you feel better."
Steve looked at the phone thoughtfully.
~*~
"Oh, thank you, Amanda! Excellent timing." Mark shot her a gratified look as he reached the opposite of the street.
Amanda paused in handing over a small piece of luggage, the list and the keys to the house. "Pardon?"
"Never mind. You're in a hurry." Mark smiled and placed Maeve's items into the trunk of his car.
Amanda shrugged. "Okay, Mark. See you later."
"Bye, Honey." Mark watched her go and turned and headed into the house. He decided to take a quick look around before heading toward the room where the murders had taken place.
His first stop was the kitchen. It was meticulously neat, with the exception of coffee in the coffee maker and the tell-tell signs that the place had been dusted for prints. He approached it, picked up the decanter and noted that the liquid rose to the 4 cup mark. His brow furrowed as an idea occurred to him, prompting him to use a handkerchief to remove the filter compartment and check the amount of grounds inside. There was a pre- measured packet nestled in the space. Just enough for 4 cups of coffee. As the model was very similar to the very basic one he had at home, he figured that there was no timer. Someone had made coffee the day before and not drank any.
Pondering that, he moved away from the device and continued to scan the room. His eyes settled on the refrigerator. There was a note there. He took a closer look. A receipt from Happy Maids Cleaning Service dated for the day before the murders. Attached to the receipt was a yellow post-it note thanking Mrs. Michaels for being so generous and informing her that the repair man had come, but that he'd needed a part. The note was signed by Jerri with the image of a wide-eyed smiley face. He chuckled at that, and continued on through the house.
As he was wandering into a small guestroom, his phone rang. He reached into his pocket and drew it out. "Mark Sloan."
"Hi, Dad." Steve's voice sounded in his ears, and Mark smiled in response. He was always happy to hear from him. "How is it going?"
Mark ducked out of the small room into a larger bedroom and found that it had a bathroom that adjoined it. "Well, I've discovered that someone made a fresh pot of coffee, probably yesterday morning considering the cleaning lady was here the day before. I don't think they had a chance to drink any."
"So you think Adam Michaels was making coffee for his assistant?" Steve asked.
"Makes sense to me," Mark replied. "Also, there was a note that the repairman had come that same day. It was left by someone named Jerri from Happy Maids Cleaning Service."
"What kind of repair do you think it was?" Steve's voice questioned.
"Doesn't say," Mark replied distractedly as he checked out the answering machine in one of the guestrooms. "That's a little odd," he murmured to himself.
"What's odd, Dad?"
"Well," Mark stood and took in the room. While neatly kept, there was something odd about it. Maybe it was the touches like the alarm clock, which was set, or the answering machine at the bedside, or the cordless receiver to a phone sitting on top of a chest of drawers. There were also toothbrushes in the adjoining bedroom. "Did the Michaels' have someone living with them?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"It's one of the bedrooms. It looks a little . . . lived in, I suppose."
Steve was quiet for a few moments. "Is it one with sorta greenish curtains?"
Mark looked toward the window. "Yes, it is. Did it seem that way to you, too?"
Steve blew out a sigh. "That's the room we were in, Dad, when we . . . uh . . . "
It took a moment for what Steve was saying to sink in. "Oh! Maybe they kept the master bedroom separate, for themselves." He felt the need to leave the room, and made his way back out to the living area. Having concluded his tour, he started for the master suite and was brought up short by a sound from outside. It sounded as if someone was running water.
Moving toward the door, he opened it and leaned out. A young man dressed in dark blue khakis and work boots was moving away from the side of the house carrying a bucket. He settled in the grass near one of the stepping stones that were a part of the yard's design, reached into the bucket and grabbed out a brush and began scrubbing.
"Steve, I've gotta go. The gardener is here, and I'd like to talk to him. I'll call you back."
"Okay. Bye, Dad."
Mark hung up thoughtfully, wondering at Steve's real reason for calling. He then proceeded on out the door, calling to the gardener as he went. As he neared he discovered that the young man was wearing headsets. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
The man looked up, startled and dragged his head phones off. An ear- blistering wave of heavy metal leaked from the tiny speakers. "Dude! You scared me."
"I'm terribly sorry," Mark hastened to apologize. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He pointed back toward the house. "I was just taking a look around and I heard you out here. I'm Mark Sloan. Are you the gardener?"
The man nodded energetically. "Yeah, one of them. Andy Keffer." He smiled in a friendly manner and went back to his scrubbing. Mark was thankful that he also cut the power on his discman.
He knelt near him. "You do know what happened here, don't you?"
Andy shrugged, his expression saddening. "Yeah, I heard something happened to the guy. Is Mrs. Michaels okay?"
Mark smiled reassuringly. "I think she will be, but she's a little shaken up. That's what I'm doing here. I'm trying to help her."
The young man's sad mood swung back to jubilant. "What are you? Some kind of cop or something?"
Mark chuckled. "Not exactly. I am a consultant with the LAPD, though. How often do you come out and work on the yard?" He looked around at the greenery. It really was lovely. He thought it looked healthier than Masterson's lawn across the street. "It looks great, by the way."
"Thanks!" The young man smiled enthusiastically. "But, I can't take any of the credit for that. Findley did all of the work here. He owns the company." He picked up one of the containers in a nearby hamper of gardening tools and handed it to Mark. "He even makes his own fertilizers."
Mark nodded, taking the bottle of brownish-green liquid. It was slightly damp, but he refused to dwell on it. "What are you doing there, with the stones?"
"Findley likes them white. That's my job. A few days after he does the treatments I come back and scrub the stones and stuff. The fertilizer can stain the cement and bricks, oh, and clothes." The young man pointed toward the bottle that Mark still held, "So you might want to be careful with that."
"Oh." Mark carefully handed the bottle back.
The young man smiled. "This cleans the stones and brickwork without hurting the grass and plants."
Mark looked at the next stepping stone in the arrangement and noticed small brownish-green stains. He then looked back at the one Stuart was cleaning and noticed that all of the stains had been removed. "That stuff works pretty well."
"It's called Bio-chem. Environmentally friendly. I use it a lot."
"Maybe you should talk to Mr. Masterson across the street. He is a little worried about the type of chemicals you're using. You could certainly put his mind at ease."
Andy laughed. "You're kidding, right? That guy's brother is trying to get an exclusive lawn contract with the neighborhood association. When people around here started seeing what Findley could do, they talked to Mrs. Michaels. She's been referring people left and right. She even helped him get this big contract out at an apartment complex on Fairfield."
Mark grinned. "Is that right? I'd imagine an exclusive lawn contract around here could be fairly lucrative."
"Oh, yeah. Big bucks."
Mark chuckled. "Well thanks for your help, Andy. I need to go back inside for a minute." He was half across the yard before he stopped and headed back toward the young man. "Do you have a business card or anything, just in case?"
Andy reached damp fingers into his pocket and handed over a no-frills card. "Tell Findley I sent you, okay? Maybe he'll give me a raise."
Mark laughed at the young man as he headed back into the house. He headed directly for the master bedroom this time. He found himself back at the patio window which contained the bullet holes made by the gun that had been used to kill the two victims.
As he looked out at the back yard of the home, which was equally as well manicured as the front, he noticed a small squarish box mounted to the side wall of the house. His brow crinkled as he tried to get a better look through the glass.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him, thinking to ask the young man if he knew what the item was. "Andy, what do you --"
"Dr. Sloan, what a surprise seeing you here." Fred Mancini smiled at him, but there was no humor in his gaze.
"Oh. Hello, Fred." Mark greeted the detective with a half smile. "I was just looking at a couple things --"
"Unfortunately, you weren't invited to look at a couple things. I have a report that you were seen with items taken from this crime scene."
"I beg your pardon?" Mark frowned at the other man. "I was only gathering a few items for Mrs. Michaels."
"So you admit to removing items from the crime scene?" Fred persisted.
"No, I was simply retrieving . . . . " Mark tried to clarify his position, but the detective was no longer listening.
"Mark Sloan. I'm sorry to have to do this to you. But I'm placing you under arrest for trespassing and interfering with a police investigation. You have the right to remain silent . . . "
Mark gaped as the man approached, turned him, and slipped a pair of metal cuffs over his hands. The rest of what Fred said was lost as his mind buzzed at the surprising turn of events. As he was led outside, past a shocked looking Andy, and past his car toward Fred's, he saw Kevin Masterson across the street. His video camera was up to his face. He had the nerve to wave.
"I've got it, Jess!"
Jesse blinked at Steve's grumbling outburst as he tried to help him out of his car, but persisted anyway, providing a guiding hand to help him to a standing position. Steve could be a little ornery when he wasn't feeling well, although Jesse knew that it was more than his injuries that brought on the bad mood.
He looked across the top of the car at Maeve and shot her a reassuring smile. "He gets this way when he's not in control of the situation. But we love him, anyway."
Maeve chuckled, and lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender as Steve shot a murderous look between the both of them.
"I can make it into the house on my own, thank you very much. It was just a flesh wound." He took a long step out of Jesse's grasp. Jesse knew that the movement had to hurt, but he covered it very well. Only the tightness about his shoulders betrayed him.
Jesse thought to remind him that it was a little more than a flesh wound, that the bullet that had ploughed a furrow along his side had caused considerable blood loss and had taken a number of internal and external stitches. But then he looked over at Maeve and changed his mind, deciding to use another line of reasoning.
"I'm sure you know all of the hand-outs by heart, which means you know that you need to take it easy for a couple of days. No strenuous exercise. No running, no diving. No . . . "
"I do know what to do." Steve continued to complain as they all moved slowly up the walkway toward the front door. "You've drilled them into me so many times that they're practically ringing in my ears."
"Good," Jesse teased. "I'm glad you know, 'cause there's gonna be a test."
Steve paused, and the slightest hint of a grin appeared. He released a small sigh and the tension in his shoulders relaxed a bit. "I want to check the place out before the two of you come in."
Jesse didn't like the sound of that. Steve didn't need to be romping up and down all of the different sets of stairs that made up the Sloan home. "Sorry. No."
Steve's previous moment of good humor evaporated. "What do you mean, no? Dad probably hasn't been here since we all left yesterday. I need to make sure that the coast is clear."
"It's not your checking that I'm worried about, it's your checking it alone. We're coming with you. And you're watching my back while I do any necessary strenuous stuff."
Steve seemed to be fighting an internal battle for several moments, before turning back toward the steps leading up to the front door. "Fine," he muttered tiredly, before placing a protective hand over his side and making the journey up the brick steps.
Jesse remained behind him as silent support if he needed it. He didn't think an outwardly extended hand of aid would be appreciated. Once inside, they made the journey through all of the rooms of the house. Jesse had insisted on doing Steve's apartment last, mostly because that was where he wanted Steve to stay.
Thankfully by the time they'd reached that point, Steve was exhausted and it took a little less convincing than Jesse had expected. Knowing that the lazy boy was going to be much easier on abdominal sutures than was the bed, he got him set up there, and even covered his knees with a blanket.
"Just great. Thanks, Dad," Steve muttered.
"Your sarcasm wounds me," Jesse returned. "Mark entrusted me with getting you home. How's he going to ever trust me again if I don't do all the things that he would do? Now, howzabout a good night huggie?"
"I'm warning you, Jess. Touch me and draw back a nub."
Jesse just laughed and placed the remote control and the telephone nearby. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be right upstairs."
Steve's only reply was a grunt.
-- --
Jesse reached the top of the stairs to find Maeve busy clearing up the kitchen. She looked over at him sheepishly as he entered. "Sorry. It's the least I could do since Mark and Amanda are going to my place to pick up things for me. Besides, I feel as if I'm to blame for what's happened. And now for all of this food spoiling."
Jesse looked around at the remains of the meats that Mark had been preparing the night before. The chicken and steaks were a total loss, but he seemed to recall that Mark had slid the platter of formed hamburger patties back into the refrigerator.
"Well, Mark and Amanda should be back before too long. Why don't we whip up something for lunch? I'll just go start up the grill and then come back and help out in here."
Maeve's smile was relieved and appreciative.
Jesse returned her smile. He knew what it was like to need to feel useful, as if he was helping in some way. Especially under such circumstances as the ones that she was facing. He was sure that Steve hadn't told her that he was now a suspect in her husband and his assistant's murders, but he was fairly certain that she knew that the investigating officer was suspicious of her.
As he approached the balcony doors, his smile faltered. There was crime scene tape along the beach and extending to the area beneath the house. The forensics team had been looking for the bullet that had grazed Steve and investigating the area for other bits of information. Maybe eating outside wasn't such a good idea, after all.
~*~
"Amanda, I really appreciate your meeting me," Mark said as he deftly detached the crime scene tape and fitted a key into the lock of the Michaels' front door. "Maeve wasn't ready to come back here, yet and well, I'm not sure I'd be good at . . . uh . . . "
" . . . picking out women's clothing?" Amanda finished for him. But the look that she gave him was far too knowing. "Admit it, Mark. You want another look at that crime scene."
Mark grinned sheepishly. She knew him well. That or he was becoming transparent in his old age. "Yes, and you got me," he confessed. "I would like another look around. And I'd really like a word with the neighbor."
"Isn't that him?" Amanda asked. "Not shy, is he?"
Mark turned to follow the direction she was pointing in. Sure enough, the neighbor was there, standing in his garage opening, blatantly staring. That gave Mark a thought. If this man watched the house as much as it seemed he did, maybe he had seen something on the day of the murder. Something that may have been missed when he was questioned previously.
"Amanda, why don't you go on inside while I have a talk with him?"
"Sure." Amanda smiled indulgently and took the keys and Maeve's list from him.
"Thanks." Mark returned her smile and set off across the street. As he approached the man began moving back toward the insides of his home.
"Wait. Excuse me? Mr. . . . uh. . . Mr. . . " Mark was embarrassed to admit that he couldn't recall the man's name. He searched his memory as he continued to advance on him.
"Masterson," the man supplied, eyeing him suspiciously. "What are you doing over there? Isn't it a crime scene?"
"Well, yes," Mark admitted. "But I'm a consultant with the Los Angeles Police Department." He pulled out his wallet and showed the identification that they'd issued him. He ignored Masterson's intense examination of the document and continued, "I just wanted to check out a couple of things. And I wanted to have a word with you. Are you a part of the neighborhood watch in this community? I noticed that the signs were very well placed as I drove in."
Masterson looked up and brightened. "Yes, I am. I'm the president, in fact. I'd like to think of myself as the unofficial eyes around here. I've always believed that if one doesn't watch out for his neighbors, then no one will."
Mark nodded. "Uh huh. Well, that's a good attitude to have. We should watch out for each other. And I'm curious. On yesterday morning, did you notice anything suspicious across the street at the Michaels' residence?"
"Aside from all of the police vehicles, you mean?"
"Of course, aside from them."
"Well, no. I had another personal matter to attend to, so I wasn't home on the morning in question. I arrived back shortly after Mrs. Michaels did. I saw her car pulling into the driveway. That would have been at 10:20."
"I see." Mark smiled, storing away the information the other man had communicated. "What time did you leave that morning?"
"7:28."
"How can you be so certain of the exact time?" Mark was curious.
"Because that's the time I always leave. It's a recurring appointment every fourth Friday, and the drive is 45 minutes. I like to be punctual."
"Just where was this appointment, Mr. Masterson?"
"Free & Clear Intestinal Health. In Santa Monica. I have a monthly hydrotherapy session. It works wonders for clearing out the old to make way for the new. If you're looking for someone, I'd be happy to refer you."
Mark stared at the other man for a beat, never dropping his smile, then, "I hear that there were some issues with the Michaels' that the neighborhood association became involved in."
"Oh, yes. There were. They just have to be different. For one thing, they refused to use the lawn service that everyone else uses. The lawn care provider chosen by the neighborhood association is certified environmentally safe. And then there are the plants that they've chosen. They were on the acceptable, but not preferred list this year, which means that they will be unacceptable next year. So, what did they do? They have them planted this year! They're perennials, Doctor Sloan! Do you know what that means?"
" . . . uh, I think . . . "
"They'll still be there next year!" Masterson seemed to have found his element and continued as if Mark hadn't said a thing.
" . . . that's what I thought . . . " Mark tried to cut in.
"That means we're going to have to go through the process of having them removed in order to bring them into compliance. I don't think . . . "
"Mark!" Amanda called from the side of her car, drawing his attention away from the ranting Masterson. She held her pager aloft. "I've got to go. I've been called to another scene."
"Uh . . . Excuse me," Mark waved a hand for attention and was surprised when Masterson immediately quieted.
"You have to go?" he asked.
"Uh, yes. I'm sorry. But thank you for your help."
"No problem. Come back anytime. And don't forget to let me know about that referral."
Mark smiled then waved and headed off down the driveway. He saved his sigh of relief for when he reached the street.
~*~
Steve was woken from a light doze by the sound of footsteps on the way down to his apartment. Mildly irritated at the fact that he'd actually fallen asleep, he turned to see who was descending the stairs.
"Hey, Steve." Jesse's spikily styled head appeared. He was carrying a lap tray laden with a bowl, a saucer and a bottle with a straw sticking out of it.
"Hey, Jess." Steve shot him a look. "Please don't tell me that's broth and toast."
"Okay, I won't. But bear in mind that it's designed to keep you hydrated. Repeat to yourself that your body needs this. Besides, you need to take your meds with food, and this was the best I could do for the moment." Jesse looked around, noting that the television wasn't on and that there was no book in the process of being read. He laughed as he settled the tray across Steve's lap. "You actually took my advice and got some rest? I'm touched."
"I didn't have much of a choice," Steve replied, disgruntled. "It snuck up on me." The meal was exactly what he expected. Boring. The two small pills sitting on the napkin beside the bowl made him feel a little depressed. And the little red and blue balloons all over the straw made him feel like he was five years old. "But someday, when I'm all grown up, and can stay awake, I'm going to get to go upstairs and do stuff like the big people."
Jesse gave him a wry smile. "It's normal to feel a little tired, Steve. And you really don't have to use the straw if you don't want to. I just thought the balloon ones were your favorites."
Steve half chuckled, half sighed, torn between amusement and frustration. "Jesse, I appreciate your help. It's just that there's a lot going on right now, and I feel like I've been side-lined. I know dad is out there somewhere investigating -- regardless of that cover story about picking up stuff -- trying to find the real killer. This person has already murdered two people. He shouldn't be out there on his own."
"Come on, your dad is a smart guy, Steve. If he thinks a situation is going to be too dangerous, I'm sure he'll call, or just get out of there."
"Oh, right. I almost forgot who I was talking to. You're just as bad as he is sometimes."
"And things have always turned out fine."
Steve pressed Jesse with a look.
"Well, mostly," Jesse corrected with a grin. "And Mark did say he'd be here by 1 o'clock, which isn't too far off. I need to run to the store to pick up a couple things to go with the hamburgers. I should beat Mark back. Do you need anything?"
"A beer?"
"I don't think so, buddy," Jesse replied. "Why don't you give him a call? It'll make you feel better."
Steve looked at the phone thoughtfully.
~*~
"Oh, thank you, Amanda! Excellent timing." Mark shot her a gratified look as he reached the opposite of the street.
Amanda paused in handing over a small piece of luggage, the list and the keys to the house. "Pardon?"
"Never mind. You're in a hurry." Mark smiled and placed Maeve's items into the trunk of his car.
Amanda shrugged. "Okay, Mark. See you later."
"Bye, Honey." Mark watched her go and turned and headed into the house. He decided to take a quick look around before heading toward the room where the murders had taken place.
His first stop was the kitchen. It was meticulously neat, with the exception of coffee in the coffee maker and the tell-tell signs that the place had been dusted for prints. He approached it, picked up the decanter and noted that the liquid rose to the 4 cup mark. His brow furrowed as an idea occurred to him, prompting him to use a handkerchief to remove the filter compartment and check the amount of grounds inside. There was a pre- measured packet nestled in the space. Just enough for 4 cups of coffee. As the model was very similar to the very basic one he had at home, he figured that there was no timer. Someone had made coffee the day before and not drank any.
Pondering that, he moved away from the device and continued to scan the room. His eyes settled on the refrigerator. There was a note there. He took a closer look. A receipt from Happy Maids Cleaning Service dated for the day before the murders. Attached to the receipt was a yellow post-it note thanking Mrs. Michaels for being so generous and informing her that the repair man had come, but that he'd needed a part. The note was signed by Jerri with the image of a wide-eyed smiley face. He chuckled at that, and continued on through the house.
As he was wandering into a small guestroom, his phone rang. He reached into his pocket and drew it out. "Mark Sloan."
"Hi, Dad." Steve's voice sounded in his ears, and Mark smiled in response. He was always happy to hear from him. "How is it going?"
Mark ducked out of the small room into a larger bedroom and found that it had a bathroom that adjoined it. "Well, I've discovered that someone made a fresh pot of coffee, probably yesterday morning considering the cleaning lady was here the day before. I don't think they had a chance to drink any."
"So you think Adam Michaels was making coffee for his assistant?" Steve asked.
"Makes sense to me," Mark replied. "Also, there was a note that the repairman had come that same day. It was left by someone named Jerri from Happy Maids Cleaning Service."
"What kind of repair do you think it was?" Steve's voice questioned.
"Doesn't say," Mark replied distractedly as he checked out the answering machine in one of the guestrooms. "That's a little odd," he murmured to himself.
"What's odd, Dad?"
"Well," Mark stood and took in the room. While neatly kept, there was something odd about it. Maybe it was the touches like the alarm clock, which was set, or the answering machine at the bedside, or the cordless receiver to a phone sitting on top of a chest of drawers. There were also toothbrushes in the adjoining bedroom. "Did the Michaels' have someone living with them?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"It's one of the bedrooms. It looks a little . . . lived in, I suppose."
Steve was quiet for a few moments. "Is it one with sorta greenish curtains?"
Mark looked toward the window. "Yes, it is. Did it seem that way to you, too?"
Steve blew out a sigh. "That's the room we were in, Dad, when we . . . uh . . . "
It took a moment for what Steve was saying to sink in. "Oh! Maybe they kept the master bedroom separate, for themselves." He felt the need to leave the room, and made his way back out to the living area. Having concluded his tour, he started for the master suite and was brought up short by a sound from outside. It sounded as if someone was running water.
Moving toward the door, he opened it and leaned out. A young man dressed in dark blue khakis and work boots was moving away from the side of the house carrying a bucket. He settled in the grass near one of the stepping stones that were a part of the yard's design, reached into the bucket and grabbed out a brush and began scrubbing.
"Steve, I've gotta go. The gardener is here, and I'd like to talk to him. I'll call you back."
"Okay. Bye, Dad."
Mark hung up thoughtfully, wondering at Steve's real reason for calling. He then proceeded on out the door, calling to the gardener as he went. As he neared he discovered that the young man was wearing headsets. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
The man looked up, startled and dragged his head phones off. An ear- blistering wave of heavy metal leaked from the tiny speakers. "Dude! You scared me."
"I'm terribly sorry," Mark hastened to apologize. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He pointed back toward the house. "I was just taking a look around and I heard you out here. I'm Mark Sloan. Are you the gardener?"
The man nodded energetically. "Yeah, one of them. Andy Keffer." He smiled in a friendly manner and went back to his scrubbing. Mark was thankful that he also cut the power on his discman.
He knelt near him. "You do know what happened here, don't you?"
Andy shrugged, his expression saddening. "Yeah, I heard something happened to the guy. Is Mrs. Michaels okay?"
Mark smiled reassuringly. "I think she will be, but she's a little shaken up. That's what I'm doing here. I'm trying to help her."
The young man's sad mood swung back to jubilant. "What are you? Some kind of cop or something?"
Mark chuckled. "Not exactly. I am a consultant with the LAPD, though. How often do you come out and work on the yard?" He looked around at the greenery. It really was lovely. He thought it looked healthier than Masterson's lawn across the street. "It looks great, by the way."
"Thanks!" The young man smiled enthusiastically. "But, I can't take any of the credit for that. Findley did all of the work here. He owns the company." He picked up one of the containers in a nearby hamper of gardening tools and handed it to Mark. "He even makes his own fertilizers."
Mark nodded, taking the bottle of brownish-green liquid. It was slightly damp, but he refused to dwell on it. "What are you doing there, with the stones?"
"Findley likes them white. That's my job. A few days after he does the treatments I come back and scrub the stones and stuff. The fertilizer can stain the cement and bricks, oh, and clothes." The young man pointed toward the bottle that Mark still held, "So you might want to be careful with that."
"Oh." Mark carefully handed the bottle back.
The young man smiled. "This cleans the stones and brickwork without hurting the grass and plants."
Mark looked at the next stepping stone in the arrangement and noticed small brownish-green stains. He then looked back at the one Stuart was cleaning and noticed that all of the stains had been removed. "That stuff works pretty well."
"It's called Bio-chem. Environmentally friendly. I use it a lot."
"Maybe you should talk to Mr. Masterson across the street. He is a little worried about the type of chemicals you're using. You could certainly put his mind at ease."
Andy laughed. "You're kidding, right? That guy's brother is trying to get an exclusive lawn contract with the neighborhood association. When people around here started seeing what Findley could do, they talked to Mrs. Michaels. She's been referring people left and right. She even helped him get this big contract out at an apartment complex on Fairfield."
Mark grinned. "Is that right? I'd imagine an exclusive lawn contract around here could be fairly lucrative."
"Oh, yeah. Big bucks."
Mark chuckled. "Well thanks for your help, Andy. I need to go back inside for a minute." He was half across the yard before he stopped and headed back toward the young man. "Do you have a business card or anything, just in case?"
Andy reached damp fingers into his pocket and handed over a no-frills card. "Tell Findley I sent you, okay? Maybe he'll give me a raise."
Mark laughed at the young man as he headed back into the house. He headed directly for the master bedroom this time. He found himself back at the patio window which contained the bullet holes made by the gun that had been used to kill the two victims.
As he looked out at the back yard of the home, which was equally as well manicured as the front, he noticed a small squarish box mounted to the side wall of the house. His brow crinkled as he tried to get a better look through the glass.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him, thinking to ask the young man if he knew what the item was. "Andy, what do you --"
"Dr. Sloan, what a surprise seeing you here." Fred Mancini smiled at him, but there was no humor in his gaze.
"Oh. Hello, Fred." Mark greeted the detective with a half smile. "I was just looking at a couple things --"
"Unfortunately, you weren't invited to look at a couple things. I have a report that you were seen with items taken from this crime scene."
"I beg your pardon?" Mark frowned at the other man. "I was only gathering a few items for Mrs. Michaels."
"So you admit to removing items from the crime scene?" Fred persisted.
"No, I was simply retrieving . . . . " Mark tried to clarify his position, but the detective was no longer listening.
"Mark Sloan. I'm sorry to have to do this to you. But I'm placing you under arrest for trespassing and interfering with a police investigation. You have the right to remain silent . . . "
Mark gaped as the man approached, turned him, and slipped a pair of metal cuffs over his hands. The rest of what Fred said was lost as his mind buzzed at the surprising turn of events. As he was led outside, past a shocked looking Andy, and past his car toward Fred's, he saw Kevin Masterson across the street. His video camera was up to his face. He had the nerve to wave.