The Mummy Case (Jim Knighthorse Series #2) Page 3

  “Not very talkative.” I nodded toward Sly.

  “He’s a mummy,” said the employee.

  “Ah, would explain it.”

  The kid didn’t seem to care much that the man in the case had been murdered.

  But I cared. Hell, I was being paid to care. Sort of. And the more I thought of it, the more I cared.

  I reread the legend for the dozenth time. Sylvester had been found in the California desert, near Rawhide, now known as the Rawhide Ghost Town. Historians had found no evidence as to who he was or why he was killed. After his discovery, Sylvester had been passed from museum to museum, paraded around until this day. The only justification as to why he was not given a proper burial was that he was a mummy, and therefore of interest to science and history.

  Now he was just of interest to Jones’s pocketbook.

  I stepped up next to the case, my face just inches from Sly’s own. I stared at him, soaking in the details of his dried-out face, his half-open eyes, and his shriveled remains of a nose. I stared at him, and we played the blinking game for a half a minute. He won, although he might have flinched.

  I put my hand on the case.

  Well, buddy, I think you are more than a freak show curiosity. I think you were once a person, a person who died a hell of a shitty death. I care that you suffered so much. I care that you bled to death. I care that you never got that last drink of water you so desperately craved. Of course, you didn’t leave me much to go on, but that’s never stopped me before. But first I have to look into the death of a young historian, who may or may not have died accidentally. Maybe you know him. I hear he was a good kid. His name is Willie Clarke.

  “There’s no touching the display,” said the voice of the employee behind me. “Now that we serve ice cream here, I’m always cleaning off sticky fingerprints. It’s a pain in my ass. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” I said, and left.

  Chapter Seven

  The University of Irvine police sub-station was a single story wooden structure located on the outskirts of campus. A female officer in her twenties was working the front desk. She had on a cop uniform from the waist up, and cop shorts from the waist down. Her legs were thick and well muscled. Nothing says sexy like cop shorts.

  She asked if I was here to pay a parking ticket. I showed her my P.I. license and told her who I was and what I was doing here. Without looking at the license, she told me to wait. I snapped my wallet shut. Her loss; she missed a hell of a picture. She disappeared through a back door.

  I struck a jaunty pose at the counter and waited, ankles crossed, weight on one elbow. Surveyed the room. Wasn’t much to survey. Typical campus sub-station was designed mostly to accept payments for parking tickets, which, I think, funded much of UCI’s scientific research. Behind the counter were a few empty desks, the occupants probably out giving more parking tickets.

  Soon enough I was sitting at a small desk watching a small cop eating a bowl of Oriental noodles. Judging by the way that he recklessly slurped, he seemed irritated that I disturbed his meal. His name was Officer Baker.

  “Caught me on a lunch break,” he said, wiping his mouth carefully with a folded napkin.

  “I hadn’t realized.”

  “Professor Darwin said you might come by, and if you did, to fill you in with what’s going on.”

  “She knows I worry.”

  “Quite frankly, I’m a little worried, too.”

  In my lap, I realized I had balled my hands into fists. My knuckles were showing white, crisscrossed with puffy scars from too many fights everywhere. Grade school, high school, college. Just last week. My fists were wide, a hell of a knuckle sandwich.

  “Any leads?” I asked.

  “None.”

  “Any other professors targeted?”

  He shook his head. “No. Just Professor Darwin.”

  “Did the surveillance cameras catch anything?”

  He briefly eyeballed his noodles. “No.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Again, no.”

  I inhaled, wondering what, if anything, had been done about this.

  “How about protection for Professor Darwin?”

  “We offered to escort her across campus, but she declined. She said she has pepper spray and wasn’t afraid to use it. And that you had taught her self-defense.” He was a really small man, made smaller by the fact that he had yet to do anything for Cindy. He sat forward in his desk. “I know you are concerned. But I am personally looking into this. We patrol Professor Darwin’s office, her lecture hall, and her car regularly. I assure you, sooner rather than later, we will find this creep.”

  “You have any objections if I come by a few nights a week and poke around?”

  He looked at me. “You the same Knighthorse who played for UCLA?”

  “One and only.”

  “Then I have no objections,” he said.

  I left his office. Sometimes it’s good to be me.

  Chapter Eight

  Cindy and I finished our Saturday morning jog at the beach, ending up at my place. To conserve water, we showered together. Zowie! Cindy scrubbed the blue gunk off her face, and then tried her best to scrub me off her. She succeeded with the former but not the latter. Now we were at the Huntington Beach Brew Pub, surrounded by a lot of beer in huge stainless steel vats. A lot of beer.

  A waitress came by carrying three sloshing ice-encrusted mugs in one hand by their ice-encrusted handles to a nearby table. I watched her carefully. Or, more accurately, the beer carefully.

  “I hope it’s okay that we’re here,” Cindy said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “But you’ve been doing so well lately. I hate to tempt you like this.”

  “Actually, not as well as you think.” I looked her in the eye, took a deep breath. “And you probably shouldn’t feel very proud.”

  She was in the act of raising her glass of water to her lips. It stopped about halfway. “You’ve been drinking again.”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Not as much.”

  She set the glass back down. Perhaps a little too loudly. Our waitress picked that moment to come by, asked if we were ready to order. I shook my head and said no, keeping my eyes on Cindy.

  When the waitress was gone, Cindy said, “Jim, you promised you would quit.”

  “I quit for nearly three months. A record for me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Turns out the more I look into my mother’s murder, the more I want to drink.”

  Her mouth was tight. She kept her hands still on the table. She took a deep breath, looked down at her hands. She was thinking, coming to some sort of decision. “And you said you haven’t been drinking as much as before.”

  “That’s true.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have been able to control the drinking?”

  “More so than before.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “Probably.”

  “But you don’t want it.”

  “Not yet.”

  The waitress came by again. This time she saw us talking and didn’t bother to stop.

  “You have a problem,” Cindy said.

  “I know.”

  “How long have you been drinking?”

  “A few weeks now.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  I shrugged. “Should have told you sooner.”

  “But you told me. I know it’s not easy. I don’t want you to hide it from me.”

  “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

  “I know. So what are you going to do about it?”

  “For now, nothing.”

  “So you’ll keep drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not as much?” she asked.

  “No, not as much.”

  She thought about that for nearly a minute. “Maybe that’s all we
can ask,” she finally said, then added, “at least while you are looking into your mother’s murder.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The waitress came by again, and I waved her over. She looked relieved. She took our orders with a smile. I ordered a burger and a Diet Coke.

  “Did you want to order a beer?” asked Cindy when the waitress left.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, not this time.”

  Cindy took my hands and held them in hers. “I love you, you big oaf.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  Chapter Nine

  The morning sun was shining at an angle through the window behind me. My feet were up on the corner of my antique desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top. I was reading from my football scrapbook, which dated back to my high school years. The binder was thick and battered, filled with hundreds of yellowed newspaper clippings. I read some of the articles, sometimes even blushing. People can say the nicest things. I was a different man back then. Of course, I had been nothing more than a kid, but I could see it in my eyes in some of the pictures. I was arrogant, smug, and cocky. Football came easy to me. Grades came easy. Girls came easy. Life was good, one long party in those days. No wonder I missed those days to some degree. Now I’ve come to realize that there is more to life than football, and it has been a hard lesson to learn. In fact, I’m still learning it, every day.

  As usual, I closed the scrapbook just before I got to the last game of my senior season at UCLA. I knew all too well what happened in the last game. I had a grim reminder of it every time I stood.

  Outside the sky was clear, a balmy sixty-four, according to my internet weather ticker. Southern California’s version of a crisp fall day. Brrr.

  I put the scrapbook back in the desk’s bottom drawer, within easy reach for next time. I next brought up the internet and went immediately to eBay, and saw that my signature was now selling for two dollars and twenty-five cents. I put in a bid for two-fifty. Next I checked my email and saw one from Cindy. In it, she described in jaw-dropping detail what she was wearing beneath her pantsuit. I flagged the message for later reference.

  Two hours later, when I was done goofing around on the internet, I was ready for real work. In the Yahoo search engine I typed “Sylvester the Mummy” and up popped a half dozen articles written mostly by historians.

  I didn’t learn anything new. One forensic expert determined Sylvester had probably been twenty-seven at the time of his death. Officially, he had died from a single gunshot wound to the stomach. Not much there to go on.

  Of the dozen or so articles, one name popped up more than once: Jarred Bloomer, official historian for the Rawhide Ghost Town Museum. He called himself the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.

  It’s always nice to be good at something.

  I knew from my interview with Detective Sherbet that Bloomer and his assistant were the last two people to see Willie Clarke alive. If I’ve learned one thing as a P.I., it’s to take note when a name appears more than once in a case.

  I sat back in my chair, laced my fingers behind my head. Perhaps it was time to visit Rawhide and Jarred Bloomer.

  But first a little nap. Detecting was hard work.

  I was dozing in that very same position when I heard a deep voice say: “Get off your lazy ass, Knighthorse. It’s the middle of the day.”

  I knew that rumbling baritone anywhere, for I hear it in my dreams and sometimes even in my nightmares.

  Standing before me was Coach Samson, my old high school football coach.

  Chapter Ten

  From his oversized calves to his bright green nylon coach’s jacket he always wore, Coach Samson exuded coachness. He filled the client chair to its capacity, as he did all chairs unfortunate enough to cross paths with his profuse posterior. His skin was a black so deep it sometimes appeared purple. Then again I’m color blind, so what did I know?

  Coach Samson looked around the office, breathing loudly through his wide nostrils. I could hear his neck scraping against the collar of his coach’s jacket.

  “You think pretty highly of yourself, Knighthorse.” His voice was gritty and guttural. It came from deep within his barrel chest, able to reach across football fields and high into stadiums.

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Those were good memories. If you look hard enough at the picture over my right shoulder, the one with two bullet holes in it—don’t ask—you can even see yourself.”

  He leaned forward, squinting. “All I see is someone’s belly.”

  “Yes, sir. Your belly.”

  He shook his head, and continued his slow inspection of the office. “What happened with the offer from the San Diego Chargers?”

  I knew that question was coming. I had spent last summer preparing for a return to football, strengthening my injured leg, only to realize the passion to play was gone.

  “I decided football had passed me by.”

  His gaze leveled on me. I shifted uncomfortably. “You could have made their squad, Knighthorse. They were desperate for a fullback. Hell, they still are.”

  “I’m a good detective.”

  “Any idea what the minimum salary is in the NFL?”

  “Probably a little more than my fee.”

  “What is your fee?”

  I told him.

  He grunted. “People actually pay you those fees?”

  “Lots of people out there want answers. I give them answers.”

  He shifted in the seat. The chair creaked. If the subject wasn’t football, Coach Samson grew uncomfortable. “So it wasn’t about the money.”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “I have a life here. I’m good at what I do. I’m a different man than when I was twenty-two.”

  We were silent. I wondered why he was here.

  “Do you miss football?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. I don’t miss the pain.”

  “You want to come back?”

  There it was.

  “Depends in what capacity.”

  “How about the capacity as my assistant coach. The team has fallen on hard times. We’re halfway through the season and we need a spark.”

  “You think I can be the spark?”

  He leveled his hazel eyes on me. “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “It’s not full time, Jim. I know you’re busy with...whatever the hell it is you do here. Show up when you can, once, twice a week. Be there for the games Friday nights.” He paused, looked down. “I have no money for you, though. Strictly volunteer.”

  Inglewood High barely had enough to pay his salary.

  I didn’t have to think about it. “Would be an honor.”

  “Practices start at two. Don’t be late.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sanchez and I were at the 24-Hour Fitness in Newport Beach. I liked going there because they were always open, except Friday and Saturday nights, in which they closed at 10 p.m.

  “You see,” I was saying, as we were doing dumbbell lunges, “they’re only open twenty-four hours a day five days a week.”

  Sanchez said, “Will you give it a rest.”

  I set the dumbbells down. We were using sixty-pound weights. Sanchez picked them up and began his set, lunging his ass off.

  I said, “Should be something like: 24-Hour Fitness Some Days, 6 a.m.-10 p.m. Other Days.”

  “Catchy,” said Sanchez.

  “But accurate.”

  “Not all 24-Hour Fitness close early on the weekends,” he said. “And not all of them close at ten, some close at eleven.”

  “Then the name change should be on an establishment by establishment basis.”

  “That would be chaotic.”

  “But accurate.”

  Sanchez shook his head. He finished his lunges, and placed the dumbbells back on the dumbbell rack. He said, “When are we going to start using
the seventies?”

  “When you get strong enough for the seventies.”

  “Hell, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  We moved over to the squat rack, and used every available plate we could find. The bar sagged noticeably. People were now watching us. At least two of those people were handsome women.

  “There are some handsome women watching us.”

  “I hate that phrase,” said Sanchez.

  “‘There are some handsome women watching us’?”

  “No. ‘Handsome women.’ Women are beautiful. Men are handsome.”

  “You think men are handsome?”

  “I think I am handsome. I think you are an ugly Caucasian.”

  I positioned myself under the barbell and began squatting away. When finished, Sanchez helped me ease the thing back on the rack. My leg was throbbing. The steel pins holding my bones together felt as if they were on fire.

  “You were gritting your teeth,” said Sanchez. “Too heavy, or the old broken leg excuse?”

  “The old broken leg excuse.”

  He stepped into the squat machine. I did some quick calculations. We were squatting with nearly five hundred pounds. Sanchez did ten reps easily.

  “Besides,” said Sanchez, when finished, “I am a married man with three kids. I don’t care if two women are looking at us.”

  “Then why are you now flexing your calves?”

  “Because it’s a free country.”

  “Tell that to Danielle.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Thirsty?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  We showered, changed and ordered drinks at the gym’s juice bar. I got a Diet Pepsi and Sanchez got something called a Sherbet Bang. We sat on red vinyl stools and leaned our elbows on the metal counter while the bartender mixed the Bang. The counter was cluttered with protein mixes, protein bars and protein supplements.

  “Why not just eat a steak?” said Sanchez.

  “Not enough protein.”

  Our drinks came. From where we sat at the gym’s juice bar, we had a good view into the aerobics room. At the moment, about thirty women and a handful of men were stretching, as we used to call it back in the day. Now it’s called pre-aerobics.