Who Killed Jenny Schecter Ch 13

Chapter 13 Hit-and-Run

On Monday Shane was twenty minutes late for their 9 a.m. meeting in the conference room.

"She just texted me, she's on her way," Lauren told Carmen as she came in and sat down.

"She must have had a romantic, candlelit evening," Carmen said, taking the lid off her paper cup of coffee and offering Lauren a donut from the bag she'd brought.

"Thanks," Lauren said. "Aren't we snarky this morning? So how was your weekend? I'm guessing not romantic and candlelit?"

"Hot and sweaty and wet," Carmen said, "although not in the good way. I went for a run on the beach Saturday, did some gardening in my mom's backyard and got a blister on my hand, cleaned out her attic, helped with the cooking. Washed my car. Babysat for a couple hours for my sister and her husband. Watched Madame Secretary and went to bed."

"No sex, huh? Too bad."

"I never said no sex," Carmen said, sipping her coffee.

"Oh? Who was she?"

"I never said it was with anybody," Carmen said.

Lauren threw back her head and laughed. "Okay, I asked for that."

"How about you?"

"Oh, my weekend was way more interesting, sensual and erotic than yours. Did the laundry. Food-shopped. Cleaned the apartment. Took some old clothes to Salvation Army. Went to the firing range, put a box of ammo into some paper targets. Went to the hardware store and got a replacement float valve for the toilet, which was running, and replaced the bad one. Started my period."

"We hottie young lezzies lead such wild, orgy-filled, sex-crazed, one-orgasm-after-another lives," Carmen said.

"I know," Lauren said. "Did I mention my strap-on's in the shop? I took it in for its annual 5,000-mile checkup and oil change."

"I've always said proper lube is important," Carmen said. "When are you picking it up?"

"I don't know," Lauren said. "They're putting it up on the rack. They want to check the ball joints."

Carmen nodded thoughtfully. "Ball joints. That's good. Wish I'd thought of that." They fell into a comfortable, donut-cushioned silence, chewing and checking their cell phones.

"What are we doing today?" Carmen finally asked.

"We start tracking down your old gang, start setting up interviews. Where is everybody, whose whereabouts do we know, who do we need to search for."

"Let's see," Carmen said, going to her cell phone contacts. "We know Bette and Tina, I know Helena, I don't know if Shane does or not, but I do. She's on some island somewhere in the Greek archipelago, and basically out-of-touch for a few more weeks. Alice we know, don't think she's going anywhere. I have Kit's address and phone, she's still here in town and running

The Planet

. Uh, who else? Niki, no idea, Max, no idea."

"Dylan."

"Nope. I never met her."

"Kelly?"

"No. Never met her, either."

"Unless Shane knows, we'll have to ask Bette and Tina about Dylan."

"I'd bet serious money they won't know."

"Most likely not, but they are still our best shot at last known address, who they knew, where they lived, etc. They were both fairly public women. Google will find them for us."

"And Niki," Carmen said. "We can get any tabloid to find out what rehab she's in this week."

"You really don't like her, do you," Lauren said.

"Well, in fairness, I never met her, but I heard all about her from Jenny, Alice and Tina, and I know how she fucked up everything with Jenny and Shane. And anyway, she's a terrible actress, not to mention a high-maintenance drama queen who can't survive without a posse. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?"

"I'm glad we got that ambiguity cleared up. Do you want to call Tina or Bette now, while we're waiting?"

"Um. No, I don't think so. Shane will want to be here to say hello. Mind if we wait? What else can we do?"

"Give me what you've got for contact info on Tina, Bette, Kit and Helena, just so I'll have it, then we can do some Google searches to find Dylan, Kelly, Max and Niki. You take two and I'll take two. Who do you want?"

"Dylan and Niki are in the film industry, and I know a lot of people in it, so I'll take them. You okay with Max and Kelly?"

"Sure."

Carmen gave Lauren what she had and they opened their laptops and started Googling.

After a minute, Lauren murmured, "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Max. Looks like he's dead."

"What? How? When?"

"Looks like fourteen, fifteen months ago. I assume it's the same Max. It's a police report from the online version of a newspaper in Bakersfield. Tell me if this is your guy. Here's what it says: Quote. The Kern County Sheriff's Office and the California Highway Patrol are asking for anyone with information concerning the hit-and-run death of Bakersfield resident Max E. Sweeney, 37, to call Detective Harry Collins at -- blah blah. Sweeney's body was discovered by a passing long-haul truck driver early Friday morning off the southbound shoulder of the Golden State Highway parenthesis State Route 99 near Meadows Field Airport north of Bakersfield.

"Paragraph. The Sheriff's Office identified Sweeney as a computer programmer with an address at a Bakersfield boarding house. Melvin K. Hildebrand, owner of Fast Fix Golden State Computers, told investigators that his computer-repair company had only recently hired Sweeney as a repair technician, and didn't know much about him. He said Sweeney came to work on time, did his job and went home."

"Paragraph. The coroner's division of the Kern County Sheriff's Department said Sweeney had a blood alcohol level above the legal limit for driving, and also had a small amount of a controlled substance in his bloodstream."

"Paragraph. Detective Collins said they have not yet found Sweeney's car, which is registered with the California DMV as a 2006 Subaru Outback, license plate number blah blah. He said his office speculates that Sweeney's car may have broken down somewhere and that Sweeney was walking along the shoulder toward Bakersfield sometime after midnight Thursday night when he was struck by a southbound vehicle that didn't stop or report the incident. Collins said he interviewed the long-haul trucker who telephoned in the report of the body. Collins said the trucker was able to see the body because of his height above the roadbed and because it was a few minutes after sunrise when there was enough daylight to see well enough to identify it as a body. He said the truck driver is not a suspect and that forensic and other evidence showed the truck driver was several hundred miles north at the approximate time the hit-and-run occurred."

They both took sips of coffee and thought it over. "What do you think?" Carmen asked.

"Nothing yet. But it's clear I need to make a bunch of phone calls to Bakersfield."

"Think it's just a coincidence?"

"Cops hate coincidences. But sometimes they happen. Let me see if I can find an obit."

"Okay. Seems pretty certain nobody in our group knew about it. We'd have passed it around soon as we heard about it." Lauren nodded. Carmen went back to searching for Niki.

"Got something," Lauren said. "The Bakersfield Californian has an online version with an obituary section, and the search engine has a Max Sweeney, dated, let's see, two weeks after the hit-and-run. Quote. A brief memorial service was held Sunday afternoon at the Bakersfield Crematoria for Max E. Sweeny, 37, of Bakersfield, who was killed two weeks ago in a late-night hit-and-run on Golden State Highway."

"Paragraph. Sweeney was employ—" Lauren stopped as Shane walked into the conference room and sat down with her cup of coffee.

"Hey, good morning, guys, sorry I'm --" She saw their faces. "What?"

"It's Max," Lauren said.

"What about Max?"

"He's dead. More than a year ago, in a hit-and-run outside of Bakersfield."

"Fuck," Shane said quietly. She took the top off her coffee and sipped, blowing on it. "Fuck. How do you know?"

"We started searching for the old gang to contact them for interviews. We found it in a Google search. I was just reading the obit to Carmen."

"Can you start over?"

"Sure. Quote. A brief memorial service was held Sunday afternoon at the Bakersfield Crematoria for Max E. Sweeny, 37, of Bakersfield, who was killed two weeks ago in a late-night hit-and-run on Golden State Highway."

"Paragraph. Sweeney was employed by Fast Fix Golden State Computers on Stockdale Highway. He was the parent of a two-year-old child, deceased, according to his former partner, Thomas J. Mater of Hollywood, the child's co-parent. Mater said Sweeney was born and raised in a small town near Skokie, Illinois, and moved to Los Angeles in 2006. Mater said Sweeney had no next-of-kin except for a sister named Maggie, from who he was estranged. Mater said he had had no contact with Sweeney for a year, but understood that Sweeney quote had issues unquote and was quote struggling unquote."

"Fuck," Shane said.

"Quote. The Kern County Sheriff's Department said it was continuing its investigation of the hit-and-run, which it termed a quote suspicious vehicular homicide unquote. The Sheriff's Office said Sweeney's body was discovered by a truck driver shortly after sun-up by the side of the road near Meadows Field Airport. The Sheriff's Department believes Sweeney was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver several hours earlier. Preliminary tests showed Sweeney had an elevated blood alcohol level as well as a controlled substance in his blood. The Sheriff's Department and coroner unit are awaiting the outcome of further lab and field tests."

There was silence. "That's it?" Shane asked.

"That's it, plus the news article we found online."

"What's that say?"

"Mostly the same. Max was apparently walking southbound on the shoulder of Route 99 north of town sometime after midnight on a Thursday night slash Friday morning, was hit by a vehicle that didn't stop. His body laid by the side of the road until a trucker saw it when the sun came up. Max had apparently been living in a boarding house in Bakersfield and working at some kind of computer repair shop. That's it."

Shane looked from Carmen to Lauren. "So what do you think?"

Lauren looked at Carmen for a second before answering. "I don't know what I think or what Carmen thinks, but I have a fair idea of what the Bakersfield cops think."

"What's that?"

"For whatever reason, Max was walking home toward Bakersfield, or maybe even hitchhiking with his thumb out. He'd obviously been drinking and doing some kind of drugs. Once you know that the rest of it just writes itself. He staggered out into the roadway and got hit, mostly his fault, not the driver. That happens way more than you'd think, statistically. Second possibility he was on the shoulder walking forward or walking backward with his thumb out, either way he got hit. In either case, the driver panics and keeps going. Third possibility. Max is quote struggling unquote according to whatshisname, the partner—"

"Yeah. Tom. I knew Tom."

"According to Tom, struggling, whatever that could mean. Physically, mentally, depression, job, love life, the entire ball of wax. Drunk, stoned, decides to put an end to his suffering, steps out in front of a car or truck. Truck is better. That happens a lot, too, instead of suicide by cop it's suicide by Greyhound, suicide by 18-wheeler, whoever the next poor schmuck driving down the highway hauling avocados to San Diego happens to be. I'd rule out buses and trucks, though, because the drivers are professionals and if they hit somebody they tend to stop and report it. They all know about suicides who step out in front, and they know things like eyewitnesses, lack of skid marks, alcohol tests and so on support them. They're doing sixty, seventy miles an hour, they have no reaction time, no way to jam on the brakes. They also know that if they don't stop, sooner or later paint chips and that kind of stuff can identify their vehicles, so the good drivers know there's no percentage in running away. They know it's not their fault and no point in running. Plus, if it's a bus, they've probably got passengers, who are witnesses. Buses always stop and report."

"So who runs?" Carmen asked. "Kids?"

"Sure, kids, but not only kids. It's what, one, two, three o'clock in the morning. Anybody who's been drinking and the very last thing they want is take a breathalyzer test. You kill somebody even if it's not your fault, but you pull even a .03 or .04 you're in the shit. Or your license or your insurance is expired. Or you're an undocumented immigrant picking grapes. You're in daddy's car and you know he's gonna freak that you hit somebody with it, and you just know daddy's not gonna believe it wasn't your fault, because that's how daddy is. You're seventy-five years old and your children want you to hand over your keys because your night vision is failing. You've got 12 parking tickets. You've got twenty dime bags of weed in the trunk. You're on the way home with your 15-year-old girlfriend who is smoking your johnson when this guy jumps out in front of you. You are straight, sober John Q. Citizen but you were nodding off and then BAM! You don't even know what you hit, but you're wide awake now and too shit-scared to find out, so you keep going, hoping it was a junkyard dog or a deer. You're cheating on your wife and your girlfriend's in the car with you. You're a somewhat famous politician or sports star or celebrity, and you don't need the bad publicity."

"So ... pretty much anybody," Shane said.

"Pretty much. And I haven't mentioned thrill killers. Every now and then there's some asshole out there who likes to scare the shit out of hitchhikers just for the hell of it. And sometimes they get too close and miss, which is to say, they hit them. Once in a while it's a straight-shot homicide, usually when there's some other assholes in the car egging the driver on."

"Nice," Shane said. "Fuck. Can I go home now?"

"You just got here," Lauren said.

"I know. I fucking hate Monday mornings."

"You hate all mornings," Carmen said.

Shane ignored her, because it was true. "What do you want me to do?"

"We were waiting for you to arrive before we called Bette and Tina in New York," Lauren said. "We figured you'd want to be here for that. Then we'll need to track down Niki, Helena, Dylan and Kelly, and you may have some idea where they are. I was gonna take two and Carmen take two, but now I've got to make a bunch of calls to Bakersfield, so how about you take Helena and Kelly?"

"Yeah, sure. I've got old phone numbers and e-mails but I don't know if they're still good. But I can try them. You said we're calling Bette and Tina?"

"Yes, hang on a sec," Carmen said, punching buttons on her cell phone. "I'm putting it on speakerphone."

They heard it ring three times before Tina picked up. "Hey, Carmen," Tina's voice came out. "You home? What's up? How's your sex life? I need a vicarious thrill."

"Before we go too far, you're on speakerphone, so the phone sex may have to wait. And I'm not home, I'm actually in LA. Shane's here, too—"

"Shane!" Tina said, "hey, babe!"

"Hey, Tina," Shane leaned forward.

"Uh, didn't quite expect both of you... um... you know..."

"Yeah, it's a very long story," Carmen said, "and we've got a lot of news to tell you and Bette, starting off with some bad news. Have you got a minute to talk?"

"Just what I needed on a Monday, bad news. Actually, I have about three minutes before I have a lunch meeting. Go ahead, I'm sitting down."

"It's Max," Carmen said. "We think he's dead."

"What? What happened?"

"Looks like a hit-and-run accident, and it was, like, more than a year ago. Apparently he moved to Bakersfield, and one night after midnight he was walking along some interstate and got clipped. They didn't find the body until daylight."

They heard Tina heave a sigh. "Well, shit. That's too bad. Max was never my favorite person, and not Bette's, either. Or yours. Or Shane's. But, you know, sad to hear it. But how are you guys, everybody else okay? Shane, I hear you're making a million bucks trimming celebrity twat, is that true?"

Shane laughed. "Yes, that's one nasty, salacious rumor I cannot deny. Not a million bucks, but an obscene amount. Hey, how's my little ballerina?"

"She's great. Oh, Shane, you should see her dance. Oh, Carmen. We go to her rehearsals and her dance classes and Bette and I have tears in our eyes. She's so light, so graceful, so ethereal. I mean, we're talking the next Misty Copeland. Carmen, I sent you a couple of videos I made with my phone."

Shane frowned. Carmen got videos and she didn't?

"I watch them over and over," Carmen said, not looking at Shane, but she picked up that Lauren was watching Shane's face. "Hey, look, I know you gotta run, but there's one more thing. We need to set up a time when we can Skype with you and Bette, as soon as possible, like maybe after work today, if we can. And I need to tell you there's a third person in the room with us right now. Detective Lauren Hancock of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office, meet our friend Tina."

"Hello, Tina," Lauren said. "Good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you, all of it good."

"Hi, Laura, you said?"

"Lauren. Lauren Hancock."

"Oh, sorry. Lauren. Hi! Did you arrest Shane and Carmen? Do they need bail? Are they handcuffed? Please tell me they are handcuffed, it's always been one of my fantasies."

They laughed. "No," Lauren said. "They're not under arrest. Not yet, anyway. I'll be happy to handcuff them, though, if it floats your boat. You want that before or after the strip search?"

"Oh, you know how to turn a girl on. Can I get a rain check on that?" Tina said. "So what's going on?"

"Tina," Carmen said, "Shane and I have teamed up with Detective Hancock to re-open the investigation into Jenny's murder. We're convinced Alice is innocent and we want to get her out of prison."

"Well, shit, of course Alice is innocent, everybody knows -- fuck, somebody's waving at me. I gotta go. I'll call Bette and get back to you soon as I can. I think we can Skype tonight."

"Great," Carmen said. "Go! Eat, mangia mangia, we'll talk later. Love you, bye!"

"You, too. Bye, Shane, bye, Laura!" Then she hung up.

"Your friend sounds like a real trip," Lauren said. "I'm really anxious to call Bakersfield now. Are you guys set on your research?"

"Yes," Carmen said. Shane nodded, yawned and opened her laptop.

Lauren looked up the number for the Kern County Sheriff's Department, dialed the number on her cell, and when it was answered she asked for Detective Collins. She waited to be transferred.

"Detective Collins? This is Detective Lauren Hancock, Los Angeles County Sherriff's Department Missing Persons Unit. I'm glad I caught you in the office on a Monday morning...

Good, thanks. You have a minute to talk? I'm working an old case and just discovered by an Internet search you have a vehicular homicide case from fourteen months ago, a hit-and-run, that I'm interested in... The vic was a Max Sweeny, Bakersfield resident, white male, age 36... yes, that's him... oh, really? ... uh huh ... uh huh... ."

Shane and Carmen gave up the pretense of doing their own work and listened to Lauren's end of the conversation.

"Uh huh ... No shit? That's weird. Uh huh... Yes, I know about that. I can help clear that up, if you want. He was transgender, lived here in LA for four or five years, transitioned or was transitioning. Then had a baby, according to the obit I read ... Yes, I know. Wait a minute, there's somebody here can answer that." Lauren turned to Shane and Carmen. "Do you know anything about Max getting top surgery?"

"He was going to get it," Carmen said, "and a bunch of us even held a fundraiser for him to get it. But then things changed. As far as I know, up until the time of Jenny's death, he hadn't had it. Shane, do you know any different?"