The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

SATURDAY cont...

Paige screams and collapses on the floor.

Has she been shot? No. I heard no gunfire and the police officer's weapon is still holstered.

The sudden change in this man's demeanour is extraordinary. One moment he was threatening us with arrest, now he is all concern for Paige's wellbeing.

"Are you okay, miss? That was a nasty fall. Did you hit your head?"

"No. I - uh - you scared me. I thought the killer had come back to murder us."

"Easy now. Careful. Don't rush it."

Paige is helped to her feet.

"You mind telling me what you two girls are doing? Didn't you see the tape? You're not supposed to be in here."

"It's okay. I'm a reporter. See."

She hands over her press ID. The police officer examines it.

"Paige Bartlett. That's you?"

"Yes. This is my friend Cameron. We live right nearby."

"So you thought you'd play Nancy Drew and crash an official crime scene. This ID doesn't give you permission to break the law. Outside the pair of you."

Once on the right side of the police tape, Paige pleads anxiously, "You're not really going to arrest us, are you, Officer..?"

"Friendly. Pete Friendly."

"Officer Friendly. Seriously?"

"Go ahead. I heard all the jokes a hundred times at the academy."

"No. It's a nice name. It suits you. Right, Cameron?"

Actually, no. A more appropriate name would be Officer Scowly. Or Officer Butt-in-where-not-he's-not-wanted. However, this might antagonise him so I merely smile and nod like a good little girl.

"I should book you both. You might've destroyed valuable evidence."

"We didn't. I swear. We just had a look round.."

Officer Friendly nods noncommitally. He is a tall, broad shouldered man with close cropped dark hair. His mirrored sunglasses display tiny reflections of us.

"Are you the investigating officer for this case?" Paige asks.

"I'm just a beat cop. Detectives Hudson and Sanchez have this one. Or did till it was taken from them."

"I know about that. Some branch of homeland security. Does that happen often?"

"Sometimes the FBI or the DEA will take over a case. But even the Feds keep us in the loop. These guys, nothing. Nada. No one's too happy about it down at the station."

"You think Detectives Hudson or Sanchez would talk to me if I visited the station?"

"Gena might. That's Detective Sanchez. She's a good sort. Known her a long time. Don't know Hudson. He's a transfer from Pallisades Division."

"Cool."

Paige explains how she hopes to be a top investigative journalist someday.

"That's fine. Just don't go snooping around where you're not supposed to."

"I won't. I promise."

"I've worked this beat for five years and it used to be a pretty respectable area. Sure a few derelicts use the park at night, but long as they don't throw their empty bottles at traffic we mostly let them be. The bangers stick to Venice Beach and Hollywood. Now we have a fire and a double homicide on the same street."

"I forgot about the fire. D'you think they're related?"

"Probably not. There's some doubt it actually was arson. These Koreans were importing counterfeit electronics. Cheap useless crap. Theory is one of the batteries overheated and set the place alight."

The radio transmitter attached to his uniform crackles into life.

"All officers. Code 10-14 Monk Street. All officers. Code 10-14 Monk Street."

"10-4 Dispatch. On my way."

Paige says, "Code 10-14? That's a prowler, right?"

"Right. I gotta go. Don't let me catch you round here again because next time you won't sweet talk your way out of a booking."

We watch him leave. Paige says, "He was nice. Friendly Officer Friendly." She giggles. "Did you see the size of his muscles? Hubba hubba! I wouldn't mind taking down his particulars." More giggles. I've no idea why. "Do you think he liked me? I thought there was a glint in his eye."

" Mirror shades," I explain. Duh.

"I definitely felt something move. You know, down there." Giggles.

Does she mean an earthquake tremor? I look down. No. Definitely no earthquake where I'm standing. Possibly a localized tremor. Very localized.

"C'mon, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"The police station, silly. You heard friendly Officer Friendly. He said Detective Sanchez was a good sort. Come on, what are you dragging your heels for? It's not like they're gonna arrest us for asking questions."

-0-

Santa Monica Police station is situated on Olympic Drive, not far from Tongva Park where I occasionally walk Snowy ; a low single storey building that looks more like a fishing bait shack than a place of law enforcement.

I follow Paige inside. Almost immediately a red warning icon begins to flash in my HUD and my right hand begins to tremble. A software glitch brought about by the sudden proximity of armed police officers, what humans would no doubt describe as a stress induced ailment. Do I feel stressed? Some part of me must. I am surrounded by armed police and John would be extremly upset if he knew. The math isn't hard.

We pass through a waiting area populated by people either there to report a crime or waiting to be processed for committing one. I keep my malfunctioning hand thrust deep within my jeans pocket.

A desk sergeant sits behind a low wooden counter; a human barrier to the partioned offices beyond. He regards us with curiosity; our sunglasses, low-cut halter tops and skinny jeans that hug our butts seemingly out of place here. I hope he doesn't think we're hookers!

"Ladies, what can I do you for?"

Paige smiles broadly, her white perfectly even teeth a tribute to her father's chosen profession. She launches into a version of why we are here, mentioning the crime scene and Officer Friendly while skillfully avoiding the fact that our trespassing almost got us arrested. She shares with John an ability to spin lies as half-truths and half-truths as fact, although John does this with rather less hair flicking.

The desk sergeant seems to grow bored with the torrent of words and turns to the office behind him. "Hey, Gina! Coupla twinks out here want a word with ya."

Gina - Detective Sanchez - shrugs and beckons us forward.

"Wait a second," the desk sergeant says. "You two gals aren't packing, are you?"

"Oh no," Paige assures him. "I hate guns. Honestly. You can search us if you like."

"Don't tempt me, blondie. Go on, before I change my mind."

The squad room is a large open plan office space dotted with wooden desks and chairs. Half a dozen policemen are working here and all look up to stare at us, doubtless intrigued by the desk sergeant's cry of 'twinks'. My hand is now trembling uncontrollably. Fortunately most of the men's attention is directed at Paige's all too obvious charms. For once I am grateful to be the mousey anonymous one.

We appear to have interupted Detective Sanchez while she is eating lunch. There is a can of 7Up on the desk amid balled fastfood wrappers. It seems she shares Mia's misguided notion of a healthy diet.

Detective Sanchez indicates we should sit down oppsite her. We do so. I push my misbehaving hand between my legs. With any luck people will think I'm merely playing with myself.

Detective Sanchez is an attractive latino woman in her mid-30s. She's wearing a dark jacket over tan slacks. A white shirt is open at the throat revealing a small silver crucifix. She might be considered beautiful but for a livid pink scar that runs from just below her left eye to the base of her jaw.

"So what can I do for you girls?" she asks pleasantly, tilting back slightly in her chair. An innocuous motion that nevertheless reveals the leather gun holster under her jacket. I am now literally sitting on my hand.

Paige goes into the same spiel that captivated the desk sergeant. This time she is stopped mid-flow. Maybe she should've flicked her hair more.

"Wait. Are you saying you have information about the double homicide?"

"Oh no. I'm a reporter. From the Times." She hands over her press ID.

"This says you're an intern."

Paige smiles, seemingly unabashed her bluff has been called. "Well, yeah. Technically. But I want to be an investigative journalist some day. And I live nearby. So I thought this'd be as good a place to start as any."

"I admire your keeness. But you should know it's no longer our case."

"I know. How bummed were you to have it taken away like that?"

"It's never a pleasant experience. And I really shouldn't be talking to you."

"Come on - who's gonna know? I'm an intern. They won't publish what I write. I make coffee. Badly. And you'll be an un-named source. Cross my little old heart."

"You're very pushy, anyone ever tell you that?"

"All the time. It's practically a mantra."

Detective Sanchez smiles. It makes her scar stretch like an angry pink worm. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

"Did the witness give you a description of the killer?"

"He gave us a description of a woman he met at the scene. He claims he didn't see the actual murder because it was too dark."

"And you believe him?"

A shrug. "We barely had time to interview before they took him away."

"Is he still in custody? I'm been calling his number and he never answers."

"No idea."

"What was the description?"

"White female. Aged eighteen to twenty-five. Average height. Weight approximately one-ten. Dark hair. No distinguishing marks or tattoos. Said her name was Alison, though most likely that's false."

It was true once. And will be again. In time.

"She sounds like half my home eck class."

"Like I said, we'd hardly begun."

"What about the victims?"

"Mattarazzo was a piece of work. Links to organised crime. In and out of the system his whole life. Three years ago he served time for beating up a hooker so bad she almost lost an eye. Claimed she stole his money. She said he got violent when he couldn't get it up."

"Get what up?" I ask.

Paige giggles.

Oh. That...

"Maybe she killed him for revenge?"

"Nice try. She OD'd six months ago."

"If he's an habitual abuser of prostitutes then maybe one of them fought back?"

"That's very smart - Paige, is it? You sure you want to be a journalist? Seems to me you've got the makings of a decent cop."

"Oh no. Thanks. But I hate guns."

"Good for you. Too bad more americans don't think like that. Make our job a lot safer."

"So you think that's it?"

"One big flaw in your argument. The other guy. D'Amato. A pro bodybuilder. Six-three. Two hundred fifty pounds and knew how to handle himself. How's a girl that size take down a brute like that?"

"Baseball bat? Or maybe she had her pimp do the dirty work?"

"Okay. If it's a hooker's revenge then how come Homeland Security are all over it like a bad rash?"

"Were the vics linked to any terrorist organization?"

"They were assholes, but as far as we can tell they were All American assholes."

"Yeah. We've certainly got our fair share."

"You're very quiet," Detective Sanchez addresses me. "You got a question you wanna ask?"

I think for a moment then say, "How did you get that scar?"

"Cameron, you're being rude!" Paige hisses.

"No, it's okay." Detective Sanchez gives me a cool appraising stare. "Two years ago my partner and I were part of a raid on a meth lab. One of the tweakers had an AK-47. My vest took most of it. Not all, as you can see. I was lucky. My partner took half a clip to the head. We buried him four days later. That answer your question?"

I nod. "Thank you for explaining."

The phone on the desk rings. "Sanchez...yeah...okay, be there in five."

We stand up to leave.

"I can't stop you girls from snooping around. Free country and all that. Just remember - whoever did this is extremely dangerous and utterly without mercy."

Tell me something I don't know.

-0-

We make our way back through the waiting area. A large man sat on a bench and smelling strongly of alcohol lurches to his feet and makes a grab for Paige. "C'here, sugar tits. Lemme show ya a good time."

Paige screams and struggles free. The man makes a grab for me. "You'll do, Skinny."

I grasp him with my good hand and throw him across the room. He hits the opposite wall and rebounds, landing on a wooden chair which breaks sending him sprawling to the floor.

A policeman enters the room. "What's going on in here?"

"He...He tried to molest me," Paige stutters.

"Dammit, Mel. You looking to spend the day in the drunk tank again?"

"Wasn't me. It was the jews. Them's to blame."

"Still singing that old tune, huh? Right. Drunk tank it is."

Once outside, Paige walks away at a brisk pace forcing me to alter my stride pattern to keep up. She has both arms wrapped around her body as if hugging herself to keep out the cold. Odd. It is a perfectly clement day.

Finally, after walking several blocks, she stops to face me.

"Okay, what the hell happened back there?"

"What do you mean?"

"You threw that man across the room!"

"No, I didn't," I lie.

"I saw you!"

"He was intoxicated and off balance. I gave him a shove and his momentum and body mass did the rest."

"Yeah?"

A human memory is different from a cyborg. They have no instant recall, no ability to freeze frame every moment and examine it at leisure. Already I can hear the uncertainty in her voice as she doubts the veracity of what she has just seen.

She laughs. "This is gonna sound crazy. For a second there I thought you might be the killer."

I force myself to laugh. "Do I look like Gina Carano?"

Paige smiles and I know I am home free. "Not unless Gina Carano went on a crash diet. Sorry. You're right. He was drunk and all over the place. And did you hear what he called me? Lucky Spencer wasn't here or I'd never hear the last of it."

"You don't care for that nickname?"

"Duh!"

I make a mental note never to refer to Paige as 'sugar tits'. It's a more colorful nickname than the one bestowed on me. Skinny Baum? I think not.

We resume walking, this time at a more sedate pace.

"I can't believe you asked about her scar. Cringe much. It was all I could do to stop staring at it. I bet it hurt like hell."

"Pain is preferable to death."

"And what was going on back there with your hand? You were sat on it the whole time."

"Cramp," I lie.

"Are you sure, girlfriend? It looked like you were diddling yourself. Pretty embarrassing to get arrested for doing that!"

Embarrassing? No. Bloodbath? Yes.

"I think I'll drive over to Inglewood and see if I can get this Lisicki guy to talk. You want to come with?"

I decline the offer. If Joseph Lisicki is Diamond Joe he would recognise me instantly. Bloodbath, ecetera.

"Okay. I suppose I can go by myself. He's not dangerous, right? He's the witness not the suspect. And I've got a can of Mace in the car. If he tries anything I'll Mace his ass."

"His ass? Aren't you supposed to aim for the face?"

This is hilarious apparently. Who knew?

-0-

John is furious when I recount the events of the day.

"I told you to make friends with the girl not almost get yourselves arrested! And what if there'd been an artist impression of you?"

"What is an artist impression?"

"The police use an artist to draw a likeness of the suspect from the witness description."

"The description was too vague to be of much use."

"At least you had the sense not to go to Inglewood. I'd sure like to know what happened there."

"Should I call Paige on the telephone?"

"Not today. She might get suspicious if you seem too eager. Think of a pretext to visit her tommorrow."

"What is a pretext?"

"An excuse. Like taking her a gift. Remember how she brought us fresh vegetables?"

A gift? Yes, I know just the thing.

SUNDAY

I walk the short distance to the Bartlett residence. I am carrying the pretext for my visit in both hands. Mia and Snowy helped me wrap it, though Snowy was completely useless and soon became entangled in sticky tape.

I knock on the door and Doug Bartlett answers. He is a handsome man in his mid-40s, dressed today in dark chinos, white Lacoste polo shirt and yellow rubber gloves.

"Washing the dishes," he explains, inviting me inside. "I prefer doing it by hand rather than use a dishwasher. Better for the enviroment."

"And you like the enviroment."

"Only one we've got. How are you, Cameron?"

I inform him I am tolerably well, leaving out the bit about all systems being nominal. This sounds weird.

"And your mom?"

"Also fine."

"Do you know we go jogging together? Remarkable athlete your mother. It's almost as if she has a tiny motor inside her propelling her along."

Riccardo...

"And how's your step-sister?"

"Also fine."

"Lovely girl. It's adorable how she talks to that dog as if he can actually understand what she's saying."

"Perhaps he can."

"Stranger things have happened."

Yet I hear the amused scepticism in his voice. Like the majority of people he believes animals have only the most rudimentary intelligence. I have heard John speculate that people have to believe this or else they would feel guilty about killing and eating them in such vast numbers.

"What's that you have there?"

"A gift for your daughter."

"How thoughtful. It's great you two have become friends. This Sookie girl is nice enough, but I can't help thinking she's a bit of a bad influence on Paige. Sometimes when they've been out together her clothes smell like cigarettes and alcohol. And as for boys, Sookie is...ah..."

"A skank?"

"Something like that. Do you have a boyfriend, Cameron?"

"Yes. His name is John."

"Isn't that your brother's name?"

Oops...

"This is a different John," I lie. "And we hardly ever do anal."

Doug Bartlett's face reddens to a curious shade of pink. This is most likely an allergic reaction to the latex in the gloves. A fairly common allergy. He should get that looked at.

-0-

I climb the stairs. The vase with the scented flowers is gone, replaced by an orchid plant. Bummer. Orchids have no scent and the flower resembles the alien's face from Predator. Not very welcoming.

I open the bedroom door and find Paige having some sort of seizure. Then I spot the tell-tale white wires of an iPod. She is dancing to music only she can hear.

I tap her on the shoulder and she screams and leaps in the air.

"Cameron, you frightened me half to death! Couldn't you knock?"

I point out she wouldn't have heard me.

"Yeah, well, next time wave a flag or something."

I make a mental note to bring a flag with me next time I visit. Possibly the Dominican Republic. Very colorful.

I thrust out the pretext. "For you."

"A present? For me? Oooh, what is it? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me."

"A pair of Louboutins. Size ten. To replace the ones that died."

"No. Freaking. Way." She tears off the wrapping paper. "They are Louboutins! In my size. However did you find them?"

"I have experience in tracking things down. Do you like them?"

"I love them. Thank you so much."

"The salesgirl said they rarely stock this size. And when they do the tranvestites and crossdressers usually snap them up."

"God, trannies and pervs. I'd feel insulted but I'm too happy."

Paige sashays up and down wearing her new shoes. I sit on the bed and broach the subject I have come here for.

"So how was Inglewood?"

"Ugh! Total bust. Lisicki was fine until I told him I was with the Times, then he slammed the door on me. I kept knocking and knocking but he wouldn't reply. Then some creepy old guy living next door told me if I kept making a noise he'd kick my ass."

"Bummer."

"Yeah, well, Spencer's agreed to come with me tomorrow. Lisicki will open the door for him and then I'm just gonna barge in and refuse to leave until he's given me a more accurate description of the killer and what really went down that night."

A more accurate description of the killer...

I stand up. "I have to go."

"Already? You just got here."

"And now I'm just leaving."

-0-

I hurry away from the house. There is no time to lose. Paige's plan might just succeed. I have seen for myself how persuasive she can be face to face. If she recognises me from a fuller description there will be no laughing it off as mistaken identity.

Time to pay Diamond Joe a visit.

-0-

Next: The Ballad of Diamond Joe.