Ill Gotten Gains: Diary of a Gentle Grifter, page 20
Well, duh, I almost said. “Especially here. There can’t actually be many houses without pools.”
“True enough,” Mitch said. “And I’d simply roll over and die without one.”
“Oh, honey, it’s too soon for talk like that.” Christopher threw his husband a judgmental stare.
Mitch bristled. “Of course. That was stupid of me. But you guys know what I meant. It was just a figure of speech. Anyway, we do hope poor, troubled Peter will rest in peace.” He turned back to Drucilla. “He really was troubled, our Peter. With the gambling and the debts and the constant unhealthy obsessions of his. Chrissy and I think he’s in a better place now.”
“Amen,” Dru said with a quick bow of her head.
Mitch suddenly lost the somber demeanor, turning almost giddy on a dime. “Come with me, you two. Christopher has a client meeting in a few minutes, but I’m expected at a broker’s open for a new pocket listing. I think it might be exactly what you’re looking for. The house is in the Deepwell Estates neighborhood. I’ll drive.”
After saying goodbye to Christopher, we followed Mitch around the side of the house, through a garden gate, and out to a triple-wide carport. An off-white, brand new Mercedes-Maybach sat next to a green vintage Porsche.
“Holy smokes. These are some mighty incredible rides,” I said as I admired the spectacular vehicles. You ain’t hurtin’ for money, are you Mitch? It was that, or this couple lived way, way beyond their means. I made a mental note to get a background check done on the two men, something I should have done earlier that week.
“The Porsche 911 is circa 1968. It’s one of Christopher’s three vehicles that he keeps in his warehouse out near the airport. He rotates them to the house every so often, so they all get used equally. This one was his father’s before Chrissy inherited it, but it hardly turned over when it was first delivered. This baby recently had a whole new engine system installed. It runs off a Tesla electric battery now, if you can believe it. We had to have special charging plugs installed here and at the warehouse.” He walked around the back of the other car and gently caressed the trunk. “And this is my new sweetheart. The Maybach was a gift from me to myself this past December,” he said with a snicker as he unlocked the car. “Merry-decadent-Christmas, huh?”
We both nodded. Then Drucilla called shotgun.
I squinted my eyes at her, then slipped into the backseat and was immediately taken by the over-the-top opulence. The interior had all the bells and whistles and was even outfitted with a champagne cooler in the back, for goodness sake. As well as heated and cooled drink holders. I guesstimated that it must have cost in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars and change. I coveted the ultra-luxury car, to say the least and decided I hated Mitch just a little bit for owning it.
“They call the exterior color Cashmere White Mango,” Mitch said smugly as he piloted the car down his wide street. It felt as if we were gliding instead of driving; it hardly felt like we were moving. I ran my hand obsessively over the rich leather seat. So buttery. I was afraid of nicking it with a nail or my watch band, so I stopped.
I clasped my hands together in my lap. “Forget the house. I’ll take two of these, Mitch.”
He laughed. “It’s only thirty-two hundred a month to lease, Trace. With an absolutely insane security deposit due at signing, naturally. I probably should have bought the blasted thing, but I get restless. It’s my curse. I like to change it up, so I lease.”
We chatted about this and that on the twenty-minute drive up the 111 state highway. Once we were back in Palm Springs proper, Mitch turned onto a side street and came to a stop in front of a white house with a dramatically slanted roof and a bubblegum pink painted front door. “This is it,” he announced.
“So cute,” Drucilla said. “I love it already.”
“I understand it’s going to go on the market for one-point-nine-nine. And it’s historic. On the registry. Someone died here. Someone big and famous, but I forget who. We’ll ask someone inside.”
Dru looked ecstatic. “Someone famous died here? How fun. I love knowing that.”
That made me roll my eyes. Dru was weird like that, I was coming to understand. I don’t think I’d ever knowingly buy a house if someone died in it. I suspect that’s not uncommon when dealing with sixty- and seventy-year-old houses, but still. I don’t need or want to know what went down in my humble abode…where I sleep and eat and make love.
The interior certainly didn’t disappoint Drucilla. She ohh’d and ahh’d her way through the whole joint. I thought the house was fun and quirky, if not a lot like Peter’s place downtown, featuring towering white painted walls, oversized pop art, and massive panes of glass.
It was as if Mitch could read my mind. “Peter’s bungalow isn’t really all that authentic. Not like this house. Almost every inch of this place is vintage, or restored to its original condition. Dean Martin apparently attended many parties here. He played the big grand piano in the living room. That same exact piano. It conveys.” He turned toward the back of the house. “And just check out this glass. The wall completely opens and pushes back. Floor-to-ceiling oneness with the backyard.”
While Dru and Mitch strode off to tour the bedroom wing, I went outside and sat down on the edge of a raised cement planter. I stared at the pool with its eight-person built-in spa, then beyond to the San Jacinto Mountains in the near distance. It was indeed a special piece of heaven. And sometime in the future, I knew I’d like to own a house like this in which to spend my golden years. Someday way off in the future, however. It was way too soon—I’m not golden yet, dammit.
More pressing than considering a home purchase for myself, I had to figure out more about this damned realtor who seemed to be living much larger than made logical sense.
Could Christopher be the one bringing in the big bucks? Did one or both of them come from family money? Or was something sinister happening?
I had to find out…and quickly. I’d need the leverage. I needed ammunition I could use against them.
And I needed ten million dollars, thank you very much.
After the tour concluded, we wrangled an invitation to dinner after Drucilla creatively let Mitch know that she, “…just went through something similar with my best girlfriend from college who made me the executor of her will.”
That sealed it. Mitch said he wanted to know more. I decided Dru deserved an award for her performance and fast thinking.
Man, I loved her a bit more with each passing day.
And that’s when Mitch said, “You know, Peter made me the executor of his will, and he left us the hotel.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Dru said. “Of course we didn’t know that. I guess that’s a silver lining. How very generous.”
“More of a pain in the ass, if you ask me,” Mitch said flatly. We were driving back to their house when we passed the Parker. “There’s your hotel, guys. Now that’s the one I wish I’d inherited.”
I sat in the passenger seat for the ride back. “Wouldn’t that be nice. It’s my favorite. But I imagine Peter’s place has got to be worth a lot, too. I mean, it’s prime downtown real estate.”
“Don’t I know it. And I already have a buyer in mind. I’ll broker the deal myself and save a bundle in fees.”
“Smart,” I said.
We drove in silence for a while, listening to Frank Sinatra croon on the Maybach’s stereo system that rivaled any concert hall. He sang, The Way You Look Tonight, and I swear, it sounded as if the chap was in the car with us.
While it would have been easy to sit back and simply enjoy the most elegant ride, I knew I had to start formulating a solid plan. Time ticked away, and my parents’ lives were possibly on the line. I pulled out my phone and texted Drucilla who sat three feet behind me.
We need to figure out how to be alone in their house. Need to know more about where their $$$ comes from
I’ll think on it
You look pretty today
I turned around in the seat and smiled at her. She looked up from her smartphone and shook her head while mouthing the word, ‘gross.’
That stung a bit.
She started typing again.
I’m your sister for goodness sake!
Not in REAL life
I’ve got zopiclone in my purse.
???
Powerful insomnia drug. Never leave home w/o it. Works wonders mixed w/alcohol.
Marry me?
2 late!
When we walked back into the Berry-Bright’s house, light jazz played throughout and a chef worked away in the kitchen. Christopher appeared and steered us to the bar in the living room.
“Betty’s been cooking for us three or four days a week for the past year,” Christopher explained. “And she always makes too much food. There’ll be plenty for four.”
I felt a tad uneasy. “Did Mitch not tell you we were coming back?”
“Yes, he did, Trace. And I’m thrilled. This will help me get my mind off of Peter and—” He suddenly stopped talking.
“Yes!” Drucilla exclaimed, startling all of us. “We will all have fun and try very, very hard not to think of recent…unpleasantries. Can we make a commitment to that for all of our sakes?” Her smile looked genuine to me. “By the way, where’s Sherry? Did she go home?”
Mitch nodded. “She did. First thing yesterday. She was scheduled to fly. She’s doing a lot of Denver-London roundtrips of late. Over on Tuesday evening, back Thursday morning. Then she sometimes does it again Saturday to Monday. It sounds grueling. My idea of absolute hell.”
“That’s because Mitch refuses to fly commercial anymore,” Christopher added. “What do you always say, honey? It’s private or we’ll just stay the hell home.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I said, even though when I’ve done well financially, flushed with cash and prizes, I’d never been private jet rich. Not yet anyway.
Our hosts served vodka drinks without offering up anything else, although they had a fully stocked bar. I eyed the extensive collection of tequilas on their shelves, but happily accepted a Grey Goose and soda with a squeeze of lime.
“The fruit is fresh off the tree in the backyard,” Christopher explained. “You’ve never tasted a lime unless it’s been plucked right off the tree.”
After we settled on the pool deck in wooden Adirondack chairs, Betty appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Smoked Alaskan salmon with a dab of chive crema on a homemade cracked wheat cracker,” she explained. I could have easily eaten a dozen. I wanted to steal Betty back to Vegas…but, of course, I didn’t have a kitchen for her to work in.
“We find we get a lot more done if we don’t have to worry about the house or feeding ourselves,” Mitch explained. “We’re so spoiled, fatter, too, but a lot more productive these days. We both have personal assistants who work remotely. They run errands, send correspondence, go to the DMV, buy and wrap gifts. That kind of thing.”
“I could never get anything done without my assistant,” Drucilla lied. “Loretta is my rock.”
“How long have you two boys been together?” I asked the couple.
“Twenty-three years,” Mitch said.
“Twenty-four, darling,” Christopher corrected.
Dru held her glass up high. “Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Either way it’s a long time. Congratulations.”
“We met at Coachella. That’s the annual music festival that takes place down the road a piece,” Christopher explained. “But I don’t think the festival actually used that name at the time. Anyway, it was a Pearl Jam concert. We met through mutual friends, went on a date the next week, and have been together ever since.”
“That’s rare, huh?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” Mitch said. “But there are a lot of long-term gay couples here in the valley. Maybe more so than almost any other place in the country. And twenty-four gay years, is probably more like fifty or sixty in straight years,” he said with a belly laugh. “We certainly beat the odds.”
“And I couldn’t be happier,” Christopher added.
I was happy for them. If only I could be so lucky. My longest relationship only lasted a year and a half, and I’ve never once shacked up with anyone. My mother calls me a confirmed bachelor. It took both of my folks several years to come to grips with that fact; they wanted more grandchildren, as if that would ever be in the cards for me even if I did get married. I’d rather eat glass. No offense to those who take on that monumental, life-changing task—I realize it’s most important to sustain humanity—but it’s just never been for me. I’m not nearly responsible enough to raise a living thing. I couldn’t even keep a prickly pear cactus alive, and they only need to be watered every other month.
The evening’s conversations ran the gamut from favorite vacation spots to the Las Vegas restaurant scene to mutual funds. Drucilla and Christopher talked about mid-century modern furniture shopping, and Mitch and I had a very in-depth conversation about the future of casino gambling. We enjoyed a lovely Veal Milanese and Caesar salads al fresco, while Betty cleaned the kitchen. After the chef left the house for the evening, drinks continued to flow long after the sun set behind the mountains and the air took on a comfortable chill again.
Dru and I took over bartending duties soon after the first drinks were poured; it was the essential part of our newly hatched plan. We’d make impossibly weak ones for ourselves, strong drinks for Mitch and Christopher, and then Drucilla would start dosing the guys’ glasses with her miracle drug.
At a quarter to ten, poor Mitch and Christopher were decidedly out for the count.
And our real work could begin.
26
GOTCHA, PLAYA!
I poured myself three-fingers worth of one of the guys’ better, pricier tequilas—the Dos Artes Reserva Especial, one of my all-time favorites—added one large ice cube, then got to work.
Drucilla had already proved she’s good at rooting through other peoples’ paperwork, so she volunteered to give the once over to both Mitch and Christopher’s desks to see if anything stood out. I zeroed in on their smartphones, both resting on the edge of the firepit in front of their slumped, sleeping bodies.
The phones were locked, naturally, but I discovered that each was the newest version of the Apple iPhone, complete with facial recognition. The older model’s fingerprint ID would have been easier, but I thought I could make it work—their faces were available, too.
“Guys,” I said loudly. “Mitch? Christopher? You guys awake?”
Nothing.
“Guys!” I said more loudly.
They were out cold.
Who said drugs are bad?
I slipped into the house and found the sound system’s receiver. I switched off the music so I’d be able to hear if anyone approached as I broke into their phones.
It turned out the music wasn’t my only problem. Their eyes were. They were closed. Turns out one can’t unlock an iPhone if the owner’s eyes are closed.
I quickly fetched Drucilla from the casita and she followed me back to the firepit.
“You hold Christopher’s eyes open and I’ll hold the phone.”
She crinkled up her face. “Goodness. What if he wakes up?”
“I thought you were confident about this drug of yours.”
“I am. Ish.”
“Good lord, Dru. Can we at least give it a whirl? We have nothing to lose.”
“Except everything,” she laughed. But she stood behind the interior designer and lifted his lids, nevertheless.
And, as predicted, it worked.
“Voila. I’m in. Thank you.” I sat down and scanned through his texts (mostly chit chat with friends, clients, and his assistant), his emails (work-related nonsense), photos (a lot of shots of chests of drawers and sofas…as well as untold thousands of naked men), and Facebook messages (he spent a great deal of time discussing Dr. Who episodes with other geeks). I found absolutely nothing salacious or incriminating.
Next Mitch.
Drucilla had gone back to continue her own search, so I managed on my own. Phone in one hand, eyelid lifting with the other. It was awkward and it took a few tries, but I got it done.
And there it was!
I felt a pang of excitement ricochet through my body. The third most recent text string on Mitch’s phone was one with Andy White. The late, naked, Andy White.
The most recent exchange was dated Sunday morning, the day of the accidental double shooting. I sped-read. And then I started taking photos with my own phone of the interchange on Mitch’s screen.
It was pure gold.
If I was reading it correctly, it seemed that Mitch was having an affair with the much younger waiter behind his best friend’s back.
Hurray, Mitch! Good going. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for cheating, buddy!
Mitch was having an affair behind his husband’s back, too. A double whammy. I had what I was sure would do the trick.
Next was phase two.
I quickly located Drucilla again, told her what I found and documented, then together we went back out to the patio.
She stood with her hands on her hips as we stared down at the sleeping beauties. “Do we leave ‘em out here and go back to the hotel?”
I shrugged. “Why not? It’s nice tonight. No rain in the forecast. What’s the worst that could happen to them?”
“They could be eaten by coyotes.”
“No. Coyotes don’t eat people,” I said. “Do they?”
Her turn to shrug. “Okay then, what happens when they wake up and find us gone?”
“They’ll think they passed out and—” My heart skipped a beat. I spun on my heels and looked up at the eaves of the house. “Dru. My God. They have surveillance cameras.”
