James Conway - In Cold Blonde

Ryan was behind the wheel, talking on his cell phone. “Yes, that’ll be fine sir, and again, my sympathies.” Ryan disconnected. “Colin Wood’s father will meet us at the morgue at four o’clock to ID the body.”

Syd had the VICAP printout on her lap. “Good,” she said as Ryan drove down Robertson Boulevard en route to the Ivy restaurant. “Did you know there is actually a medical term for having your cock cut off, penectomy.”

“No way.”

“Way. That’s when doctors do it, if the patient has cancer or something. But when it’s involved in a crime, it’s just called mutilation. By the way, the killer of that drug dealer I mentioned in the office was caught and is currently in prison. And so is this guy in Germany who cut off some guy’s penis, watched him bleed to death, and then ate him.”

“Ate the guy’s penis?”

“Yeah, and other stuff. What a freak.”

“How about cases where the doer was a woman?”

“Been a while,” Syd said flipping through the pages. “You might’ve heard of Lorena Bobbitt; in 1993 she cut off her husband’s penis while he was asleep then threw it out the car window.”

“Why?”

“She was pissed he wouldn’t give her an orgasm.”

“In that case, I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Ryan said.

Syd smiled. With Ryan, she had multiple orgasms. “Nothing at all. Anyway, doctors were able to reattach Bobbitt’s penis and he went on to become a porn star. And Mrs. Penis Remover was found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. So a happy ending for everyone involved. Well, everyone but us.” She flipped through the report. “There are no cases of a woman killing a man and cutting off his you know what. Just a few angry women hacking away at lovers and boyfriends.”

“And nothing in the last few weeks or months?”

“No.”

“Shit.” Ryan’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Hello.”

“Hey Ryan, its Johnny.”

Ryan tried to place the name, couldn’t. “Johnny?”

“Johnny Grayson, you dope. Your one and only brother.”

My one and only step brother, Ryan thought, and for only eighteen months. Johnny was the son of Maggie, wife number two. A couple of years older than Ryan he had picked on Ryan relentlessly. Now he was a manager at Home Depot but spent every spare moment at the racetrack. Ryan thought the guy was a total loser and hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of years.

“Hey, Johnny, what’s up?”

“You are, bro. You are forty-seven million smackers worth of up.”

Fuck, Ryan thought. “Actually it’s only thirty-four after taxes.”

“Still enough to start that stable of horses we always talked about.”

“We never talked about a stable of horses, Johnny.”

“Okay, you may not have, but it’s something I’ve always dreamt of. And I figured it would be the perfect way for you to share your wealth with the family.”

Ryan wasn’t sure about a lot of things, including whether he was even going to take the money; but one thing he was sure of, there was no way Johnny Grayson was going to see a penny of it. “Look, Johnny, I can’t talk about this right now. I’m on a case. But I’ll call you back, I promise,” Ryan hung up, and then muttered, “When hell freezes over.”

“And so it begins,” Syd said.

“Oh, it’s begun all right,” Ryan said. “Tony Ramirez called me earlier about a meatball franchise, in the men’s room Chen begged me for just eighty-three thousand dollars so he could save his mother’s house from foreclosure, in the locker room Katz showed me a picture of the fishing boat he’s always dreamed of and it only cost one hundred and eighteen thousand dollars.” Ryan pulled to a stop in front of the Ivy. “God damn lottery ticket.”

“Speaking of which,” Syd said, climbing out of the car. “When do you want to stop by the Lotto office and pick up your check? You don’t have much time.”

“I’m not sure,” Ryan said, his eyes searching the restaurant’s patio. He picked out a pretty blonde ushering a couple to their table. “That looks like her.”

Syd spotted her. Actress pretty, Syd thought, with a bit of attitude. She fit the roommate’s description. “Let’s go find out,” she said.

They caught up to Abigail Granger at the hostess stand, introduced themselves and Abigail led them to a small office behind the bar. Her eyes were bloodshot; it looked like she’d been crying. She may have hated Colin Wood, Ryan thought. But there was a lot of love there, too.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, yeah; fuck him,” she said, fighting back tears. “He was a selfish SOB, you know, and was always cheating on me. And I’d catch him and we’d fight, and I’d leave… then a few days later he would call, or stop by with flowers, or send some guy with a mandolin who’d sing kitschy Barry Manilow love songs and I’d melt and go back to Colin and he’d promise to never cheat on me again.”

“But he would,” Syd said sympathetically.

Abby nodded. “I’m such a sap. And now,” she said, the tears flowing, “and now he’ll never call again.”

Ryan had seen a lot of people grieve. Some of the most anguished and heartfelt had actually turned out to be the killer, so Ryan never let himself be swayed by public displays of emotion.

Ryan had taught Syd this, but needn’t have bothered. Syd’s own life lessons had taught her to never trust anyone. And as she and Ryan watched Abigail Granger weep, Syd looked at her blonde hair, remembered Colin Wood’s roommate’s story about Abigail hitting Colin with a frying pan and Abigail’s notorious temper. When Abigail regained her composure, Syd asked, “Do you have any idea who may have wanted to kill Colin?”

Abigail looked confused. “I thought you said it was a robbery?”

“There were certain elements at the crime scene to suggest it might have actually been a premeditated murder,” Ryan said.

“Just for the record,” Syd said as casually as possible while she flipped open her notepad, “where were you between the hours of midnight and two a.m.?”

“In bed, asleep.”

“Can anyone confirm that?” Syd asked.

Anger flashed in Abigail’s blue eyes. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“You can’t be a suspect if you have an alibi,” Ryan said.

Abigail stuck out her hands. “Then lock me up officer because I was alone in my apartment and unless you can get my cat to talk, I’ve got no way to prove it.”

“We’re not here to arrest anyone,” Syd said. “We’re just trying to get some information.”

“Oh, I get it,” Abigail said. “You heard about some of the fights Colin and I had. Well just because I hit him with a frying pan, backed over his foot in my car and stabbed him in the hand with a fork doesn’t mean I killed him.” Abigail let the words hang in the air, then seemed to hear what she said and started laughing. “Okay, maybe it does sound like I killed him.”

Syd laughed too. “Actually, we’d heard only about the frying pan.”

“Okay, look,” Abigail said. “I’ve got a temper, and I can be a bitch, I admit it. But I didn’t kill Colin, I swear.”

Syd believed her. And it would be easy enough to show Abigail’s picture to the bartender to confirm it. She glanced at Ryan who seemed to agree.

“You have any idea who might have wanted him dead?” Ryan asked.

“If it helps,” Syd said, “he was spotted at the crime scene with a beautiful blonde.”

Abigail’s hand involuntarily touched her hair. “Ah, now I get it. ‘Beautiful blonde,’ guess I should be complimented.”

“Do you know of any women who hated Colin,” Ryan pressed. “And forget hair color; people wear wigs.”