Live Long Day: Malone Mystery Novels

By Larry Darter

A troubled sixteen-year-old girl from a dysfunctional family. The dark world of drugs, pimps, and teenage prostitution. A private investigator determined to make a difference.

 

On the surface, except for a strict, ill-tempered step-father, Bridgette Carpenter seems to have everything a teenage girl could want. She has a family, nice clothes and lives in a home in a quiet middle-class LA neighborhood. But, if everything is so right, why does everything seem so wrong? Malone finds out when he hires on to go after a runaway girl.

 

Unfortunately, by the time Malone picks up her trail, Bridgette has already traveled to a place that seems a million miles away from her suburban home in Echo Park. Now she is caught up in the dark world of drugs, pimps, and sexual exploitation—a kind of hell on earth inhabited by people who care only about making a fast buck and savoring forbidden pleasures.

 

Can Malone find Bridgette in time before she falls victim to appalling, unspeakable acts that will steal what's left of her childhood and perhaps her very life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Darter
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732716933

Larry Darter

Larry Darter is an American author best known for his crime fiction novels written about the fictional private detective Malone. He is a former U.S. Army infantry officer, and a retired law enforcement officer. He lives with his family in Oklahoma.

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Larry Darter

Live Long Day

Malone Novels, #5

First published by Fedora Press 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Larry Darter

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Larry Darter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Larry Darter has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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For Molly, the best granddaughter ever.

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, your infants in your arms, and there have sat the live long day with patient expectation to see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.

— William Shakespeare, JULIUS CAESAR, ACT I, SCENE I

1

The Runaway

When I moved my office from the second to the fifth floor of the old Security Bank Building to get cheaper rent, I had been in a rush. Rhonda, my secretary, had suggested the new office needed painting. I had vetoed the idea. There had been only two days before the old lease expired and the new one started. There hadn’t been time. And, I hadn’t had the spare cash to hire painters or even to buy the paint, anyway.

From the first time Sara Bernstein, the girl of my dreams, had seen the office, she had often nagged me about repainting. She said my office decor was circa 1950. Whenever she brought up the subject, I always nodded in solemn agreement and then changed the subject of the conversation.

Not a woman to be deterred, Sara arrived on my doorstep early on Saturday morning. She informed me that after I’d bought her breakfast, we would paint my office. She had arrived with paint, rollers, and brushes in hand. The look of determination on her face told me she would brook no argument.

I’d long since learned that once Sara had decided something, it was best to go along with her. Like they said in one of the Star Trek episodes, resistance was futile.

The air conditioning was off in the building on weekends. We had opened all the windows and doors hoping to get a breeze and to dissipate the paint fumes. I was at the window looking out on Cahuenga, applying masking tape to the wood trim, when I saw them.

A guy was shouting at a woman. He was shaking his finger for emphasis. She was looking down at the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched as if she were expecting blows. The woman looked like a child being scolded by a harsh parent. The guy stopped shouting for a moment and scowled at the building.

There is a domestic disturbance taking place on the sidewalk out front, I said.

Behind me Sara, wearing cut-off jeans and an aqua colored tank top, was applying tan paint to the wall with a paint roller. She stepped to the window and looked down.

He doesn’t look happy about something, she said.

I love how you shrinks can read a person’s mood with only a casual glance, I said.

The man grabbed the woman by the arm, and they disappeared through the front doors of the building. A minute or two later, I heard the ding that signaled the arrival of the elevator on the fifth floor. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway. Having the only occupied office on the fifth floor, my considerable detecting abilities told me the couple must have come to see me.

Avoiding the cans of paint, a paint tray, and brushes clustered on newspapers on the floor, I walked to the door and found the couple from the sidewalk standing in the outer office. Because it was hot in the office, I was wearing only a pair of jeans with paint stains and worn sneakers.

We’re looking for a man named Malone, the man said.

I pointed to the pebbled glass in the door with my name on it in gilded gold letters. According to this, it seems you’ve found him, I said. That’s me. Come on in. I wiped my hand on my jeans and offered it to shake hands. Both looked at my hand. Neither of them took me up on the offer. I bet Sam Spade never painted his own office.

We weren’t sure if you would be here on Saturday, the man said. But I work during the week. Saturday is the only day I have for this.

I gave him what I hoped was a disarming smile. We never sleep, I said. Sara walked up behind me. This is Sara Bernstein, I said. She is helping me paint the office. A rivulet of sweat ran down my chest as I talked. Sara smiled and said hello.

My name is Carpenter, the man said. William Carpenter. This is my wife, Lola. We need to talk.

Sara gestured to the sofa. Won’t you have a seat? We can talk out here away from the paint fumes, she said.

Carpenter glared at Sara. Who are you, the secretary? We’re here to talk to him alone.

Sara said, I’ll go out and get a coffee.

I shook my head. Dr. Bernstein isn’t my secretary. She is a psychiatrist, and a close friend, I said to Carpenter. Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.

Carpenter looked like he would object, but thought better of it. There was silence. Carpenter had a square face with a high forehead. His thick dark hair was combed straight back with a lot of hair product. He seemed like a guy used to being in charge, and his failure to do so now was making him uncomfortable.

I gave him an encouraging smile. So, what did you wish to talk about? I said.

My wife dragged me here against my better judgment, Carpenter said. She wouldn’t shut up about it. She can explain it to you.

I smiled at the woman. She didn’t smile back. I guessed she was too busy chewing on her lower lip. She had big hair and a lot of makeup. She was wearing a silk shirt and designer jeans. The Carpenters sat on the sofa. Sara took Rhonda’s chair, and I sat on the edge of the desk.

How can I help, Mrs. Carpenter?

Please call me Lola, the woman said. Everyone does.

I nodded.

My daughter Bridgette is missing, Lola said. She is only sixteen. William and I were hoping you could find her.

Don’t drag me into it, Carpenter said. She’s a damned whore. If you found the little slut and brought her home, she would be out the back and gone again before you got out of our driveway.

Please, William, you’re talking about our daughter, his wife said. Her face was red, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

She is a filthy slut, Carpenter said.

That is a horrible thing to say about your child, Sara said.

What do you know about it, lady? I came home early from work the other day and caught her in bed screwing two guys from her school. I put my foot down and told her if she wanted to be a whore, she could get the hell out of my house and stay out.

That doesn’t make her a whore, Mr. Carpenter.

The hell it doesn’t, lady. I don’t need some goody-two-shoes psychiatrist giving me a lot of psychobabble about how promiscuity isn’t the same thing as being a whore.

Billy, I said.

Sara looked at me. The look said don’t say it.

The name is William, Carpenter said. I work my ass off every day selling insurance to support my family and to give that kid everything she wants. Instead of appreciating it, she throws it in my face, using drugs and having orgies in my house while her mother and I are out making a living.

His wife said, Please, William.

No, thanks. I don’t have a daughter anymore, as far as I’m concerned. Good riddance, I say. I don’t want her back.

Mr. Carpenter, Sara said. You can’t reject your child simply because she doesn’t please you. Ben can find Bridgette and bring her home. You can get her into counseling and find a solution for the behavior problems.

Please, William, listen to her, his wife said. She’s your only daughter.

Carpenter looked at me. Okay, give me your pitch, mister private eye.

I don’t have a pitch, I said. I didn’t show up at your door selling magazine subscriptions, pal. You came to see me.

Are you as dumb as you look? Carpenter said. Don’t you want the job? Come on, Lola. The deal is off.

Mr. Carpenter, Sara said. Bridgette could be in serious trouble. A sixteen-year-old girl alone on the streets is a recipe for disaster. It’s important to find her and get her back home.

His wife was sobbing now. I wanted to use Carpenter for a punching bag, but instead, I took the box of tissues off Rhonda’s desk and handed it to his wife.

If you’re so concerned about her, you go find her and take her home with you, Carpenter said to Sara.

Mr. Carpenter, Bridgette isn’t my daughter. What’s important is that Ben needs a home to bring her back to, a home where she will feel welcomed by her family. Can’t you understand that?

Listen, Carpenter said. I sold millions of dollars in life insurance last year, lady. There is plenty I can understand. I don’t need advice from you on how to raise my kid.

Is your own life insurance paid up? I asked Carpenter.

What the hell does that have to do with anything? he said.

If you shout at Dr.Bernstein again, you will learn why the question applies to the discussion.

Oh, I get it. You think you’re some kind of tough guy?

I gave Carpenter a smile that had no warmth to it, pushed off the desk, and took a step toward him. Sara leaped up from the chair and put a hand on my arm.

Mrs. Carpenter, Sara said, do you want your daughter back home?

Yes, Lola Carpenter said between sobs. But William… he… She made a fluttering motion with her hand and stopped talking, sobbing all the more.

Goddamn it, Lola, Carpenter said. Nobody wants to listen to you blubber. Will you knock it off?

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, clenching both hands into fists. Looking at Sara, I could see her face was flushed and pinched. She was angry too, and I’d had about enough of William Carpenter. He tried to take control of the situation again.

How much do you charge? he said.

To work for you? I said. Two million dollars a day, plus expenses.

Carpenter frowned. You being a smart ass?

Yes, I said.

So, you’re saying you don’t want the job?

I’d rather spend the rest of my life at a Justin Bieber concert than work for you, I said.

Carpenter looked at Sara. What the hell is his problem? he said.

Sara looked amused. I think you are his problem, Mr. Carpenter. He said he doesn’t want to work for you.

Then what the hell am I wasting my time here for? Carpenter said.

If I were your kid, I’d run away too, I said.

Please Mr. Malone, Lola Carpenter said.

The girl needs your help, Ben, Sara said. Having an asshole for a father isn’t her fault.

Forget it, Carpenter said. To hell with you both.

I took a deep breath. Lola Carpenter was looking at the floor, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Carpenter opened his mouth. I held up my hand to shush him. I said with the last shred of control I could muster, Billy if you don’t button it, I will hurt you.

Carpenter looked like a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out.

Mrs. Carpenter, I’ll work for you if you want me to find your daughter, I said.

Carpenter glared at me, the color of his face a deep crimson.

Lola Carpenter raised her chin and looked at me with her tear-filled eyes. She put effort into giving me a brave smile and nodded.

I’ll get started looking for Bridgette, I said. We can work out the fee later. How long has she been missing?

Ten days, she said, her lip quivering. I didn’t need to ask why they had delayed getting help to find her.

You have a photo of her? I said.

Yes, Lola Carpenter said.

She took a photo out of her purse. It looked like a school photo. Bridgette looked like a younger version of her mother. She had an oval-shaped face, and ash blond shoulder-length hair. She was a good-looking kid, not beautiful, but more than pretty. Bridgette was smiling in the photo, but I saw no happiness in it.

When did you last see her? I said to her mother.

Before she left for school ten days ago.

I nodded. I will need to look through her room. And I will ask around your neighborhood. I will need to talk to her friends, so I need you to make a list.

The hell you will, Carpenter said.

Lola ignored her husband. We have a house in Echo Park, she said. She gave me the address.

Carpenter stood up, taking his wife by the arm and pulling her to her feet. Come on, Lola, he said.

I’ll come by the house Monday morning, I said, if you will be home.

Lola nodded. I work, but I’ll call my boss and tell him I’ll be in late, she said.

All right, see you Monday morning, I said.

Lola nodded again before allowing her husband to drag her out of the office. I heard the elevator doors open and shut, and then the couple was gone. Being a trained investigator, as the palace guard in Hamlet said, I had the feeling something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

2

Echo Park

The Carpenter home in Echo Park was on West Kensington, near Sunset Boulevard. It was a two-story Craftsman-style frame house painted light brown. The lawn was green and freshly mowed. The manicured ornamental trees and flower beds in front showed someone had put considerable effort into the landscaping. I figured that was the work of Mrs. Carpenter. William Carpenter struck me as the sort of guy who would sit on the porch wearing a wife-beater tee-shirt drinking beer watching his wife doing the yard work.

I’d left the Toyota at the curb in front of the no parking sign. I felt pleased about it since no parking signs were hard to find in residential neighborhoods.

Echo Park is a sort of poor man’s Silver Lake. It’s a working-class neighborhood full of cultural diversity, and a little gang violence. It’s a stone’s throw from Chinatown, a quick bike ride from downtown Los Angeles, and the neighborhood you drive through to get to Dodger Stadium.

Stepping up on the front porch, I rang the bell. A few moments later, Lola Carpenter opened the front door. She was wearing dark blue medical scrubs. The design of the top was of fish and other sea creature caricatures like octopuses and squids. Lola invited me in and closed the door behind her. She gestured to the sofa in the living room and invited me to sit. She sat on a chair across from me.

I’m a dental assistant, and have to go to work once we’ve finished, she said, seeming to feel the need to explain her attire.

I see, I said. This won’t take long. I want to ask you a few questions, and then I’d like to see Bridgette’s room.

All right, she said. I’m glad you could come by while William is at work. He didn’t want to hire you to look for Bridgette. He said she would show up on her own once she ran out of money. I want to apologize for the way he behaved at your office on Saturday.

That wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Carpenter.

Lola, she said. Please call me Lola.

Okay, I said. William doesn’t strike me as a very understanding guy.

Despite the way he acted on Saturday, William cares about Bridgette, Lola said. It’s just that he is a little inflexible with his rules, his views on morality, and such. Bridgette is going through the rebellious stage, and William hasn’t handled it well.

I nodded. Were you able to make a list of Bridgette’s friends for me, kids she hangs out with around the neighborhood or at school?

Bridgette hasn’t talked with me about things like that in a long while, Lola said. I really don’t know who her friends are, other than a girl named Kaylie from school she has mentioned a few times.

Do you know Kaylie’s last name? I said.

Bauer I think, Lola said. Yes, I’m sure it’s Kaylie Bauer.

What school does Bridgette attend?

Elysian Heights, Lola said. When she goes. She has been bad about ditching school since last year. The school guidance counselor called a few weeks ago to tell me if Bridgette’s attendance doesn’t improve, she will end up having to repeat her junior year.

What’s the name of the guidance counselor? I said.

Regina Ruiz. She’s very nice and seems to care about Bridgette and her future.

Does Bridgette have a cell phone?

Yes, Lola said. But after the incident where William caught Bridgette with those boys in the house, he grounded her. As part of that, he took Bridgette’s phone away.

"So, is