Led Zeppelin was singing about a stairway to heaven while Kyle was feeling as though he was trapped in hell. Every time he moved, it seemed, he walked into another land mine. The bombs were fragmenting his psyche and it was getting more difficult by the day to think straight or reason right. He ran his months with Jessica over and over in his head. The closer he came to finding some answers, the more devastating the next explosion. He had always suspected Jessica’s agenda included men other than himself. James had sure nudged him often enough about it. But after their visit with Luke Arnold, the extent of her betrayal—and Gloria DiAngelo’s as well—overwhelmed him...
~~~
Spending about four years online with C.K. merging our emotional responses of the chaotic political arena in which we found ourselves "fighting" for change, certainly makes one feel like we are trusted acquaintances... But never during that time, had I thought of her life outside of that shall, we say, Obsession...?! LOL
But I was pleasantly surprised when C.K. announced that her book, The Mystery of Jessica Benson, was available... Of course, all my readers know that I love mysteries. Still, there is an entire world in which to set a book, and I had discovered that this writer is not only writing about sports, but has an active career in the field. I admit I learned this at the end of the book, so admit I was shocked when her expertise was very apparent--at least to me, who has little interest in anything using a ball, except, maybe, bowling...LOL
Still, overall, this book was one of the best whodunits I've read for a long time! The story is fast-paced because of the setting where ball players gain such notriety that their personal lives often are known to the world... Yet, for many, that is only a small percentage of those who actually wish to participate in the spectacle that comes with celebrity... Kyle Sands was one of those figures who normally played it lowkey, as a veteran quarterback for the Miami Demons.
Until he became involved with model Jessica Benson.
Even then he was not totally happy with what he was beginning to hear about her when he had out-of-town games and decided to call it off, unfortunately, over dinner... Which turned into a fiasco that was seen and heard by all participants in the restaurant and by neighbors when he escorted her home...
Which made him the prime suspect for when she was discovered beaten to death in her apartment--the same apartment where Kyle had left her that evening...
Readers learn early in the book that one of the homicide investigators assigned to solve the case of Jessica Benson, is someone who had been the younger sister of a friend of Kyle's who had died early. It was a traumatic experience for both Kyle and Karen Brandt. So when Will and Karen arrive, to talk to Kyle, who apparently was the last person to see Jessica alive, Karen played it so that she would not seem to know him so she would not be kicked off the case before the investigation even started.
Too soon, there were so many people with whom Jessica had been involved--yes--sexually, that most of the homicide division was soon involved in trying to gather anything that could tie the murder to someone. And, that, for Karen, meant anybody else but Kyle.
Laurence briefly mentions early that Karen's partner is in love with Karen, although not ever discussed. But, when Will sees the quick sign of recognition (or, really, a sign of interest in each other by the two), as lead investigator he pulls out all the stops to ensure a quick arrest and conviction of the quarterback...
Playing a bad cop during any and all interviews, including getting quite belligerant toward those who he felt he could threaten in any way; e.g., from a different country, toward a gay witness... Karen was fuming and didn't know how to handle his fixation, except to keep on forcing other options to be considered...
Until a second murder occurred...
A black Jaguar sat in the huge circular driveway at the address Feyzi had given Karen. The ornate wrought iron gate was wide open, like an invitation. She cautiously pulled through and parked behind the Jag but remained sitting in her car for another minute. Only two days had passed since they had first questioned Feyzi Batan. Although he was obviously shaken by their visit, today when she got his call, he sounded like a desperate man. His exact words were he was ‘sick at heart’ since the interview and needed to ‘cleanse his soul’ to rid himself of the bad karma. Whatever, Karen thought. So long as you give up a piece of this puzzle. She got out of her car, quickly surveyed the grounds and headed toward the guest house, which she assumed was somewhere behind the main residence. The backyard was a tropical haven. Mango and citrus trees dotted the lawn and multi-colored bougainvilleas lined the gate walls. Banana plants with heavy hanging arms, the hands of which sported full fingers of ripe, yellow bananas. Various fruits were scattered throughout the property, and a twenty yard square was cordoned off with a carefully tended vegetable garden. Slabs of peach and russet slate led down to a wooden dock. A yacht Karen figured to be about a sixty-footer was docked there and quietly bobbed with the ripples of the teal bay. Eden, Karen thought. Just stay away from those nasty old apples and you never need to leave the estate.
Feyzi’s so-called cottage was a replica of the main house and sat very close to the dock. She rang the bell and could hear chimes inside. A minute or so passed with no answer so she rang again and called out his name. Still no response. Something wasn’t right. He had been too anxious to meet with her not to be around. She banged on the door a couple of times, and then, suspicious, she tried the handle. It was locked. She stepped through a hedge of plumbago to get to his front windows and peered inside. Nothing. She blew out a stream of air in disgust and turned to leave. It looked like another lead was slipping through her fingers. When she was almost to her car, she thought to check the main residence to see if perhaps he was waiting for her there. She muttered to herself that she should have checked the big house in the first place. Yes, he had probably decided to wait for her there and that was why the gate had been open.
The wooden door was huge, very impressive, as was everything on the estate. She leaned on the bell and again heard chimes sounding very much like parents to the ones in the back cottage. In less than a minute the door cracked open a notch. A woman with short, spiky blonde hair and a cigarette dangling from her mouth looked out at her. She was clearly on the other side of fifty, looking a bit annoyed and rather curious. “Something you need?” she asked in a raspy, smoke-burnt voice.
Karen flashed her badge and said “Detective Brandt, police, ma’am.”
The woman’s brows lowered, and she said “Police? Sorry honey, you got the wrong house,” then she started to close the door.
“Wait!” Karen snapped. I don’t have the wrong anything. I need to speak with your tenant, Feyzi Batan, Is he here?” The door opened. The chunky lady stepped out and asked, “Feyzi? Is he in trouble?” “That’s what I need to speak with you about.”
The woman beckoned Karen to follow her inside. She introduced herself as Mazie Rose. “I knew it. I just knew it! I told that boy he was going to get himself into a shitload of trouble. Too many women with husbands and boyfriends, and his workouts weren’t just aerobics. So, who’d he finally piss off?” “I don’t know that he pissed anyone off, Ms. Rose. He’s a possible witness in a murder case. He called me about an hour and a half ago and said he needed to talk to me, but now that I’m here, he isn’t.”
“Hmmm. That’s curious, even for Feyzi. He’s pretty good about keeping appointments. Time is money, you know. How about some coffee. We’ll talk.” “Thanks, no. But about Feyzi...” “A Danish maybe? From Epicure, very fresh. Excellent.” Karen shook her head and said she had just had a big lunch. Then she cleared her throat and asked, “Did he mention anything about what’s been going on?” “Like what, honey? Are you sure he isn’t in any trouble?” “That’s what I’m trying to find out. So, has he mentioned anything at all to you about the Jessica Benson murder? Or about anything at all that might be unusual, even for him?”
"Nah. I’ve been holed up here working on some paintings and haven’t seen much of him lately. Usually we visit two, three times a week. He cooks me up a little of that Turkish coffee he makes, and sometimes we munch some baklava. He even tries to get me in shape when he has some extra time, light exercises, you know? None of ’em are light enough for me, though. I get jazzed up and it aggravates my smoker’s cough.” She laughed, but it was broken up by a fit of phlegmy hacking. “See. Just thinking about it aggravates the cough! I gotta get off these things.” She nodded her head toward the cigarette she was lighting. “My cousin the doctor says they’re bad for my health. But what isn’t bad for you today? Don’t eat red meat, too much fat. Stop the fish, too much mercury. Chicken? Hormones!
I’m glad I’m closer to going out than coming in. Another couple of years and between the food, the air we breathe, and the terrorist attacks, what do we do? Stay duck-taped in our homes with canned crap to eat, and watch government terror alerts change colors.” Karen nodded, prompting her to continue. Mazie looked down at her watch and said, “Look doll, I’m late for my nail appointment and that’s sacred. A bunch of us old broads have been meeting at Toy’s Place for over twenty years. It’s a religion. Saves a bundle on psychiatry bills. “I’ll do you one quick favor, though. Come with me.” She gestured for Karen to follow her and headed toward the back of the house. Karen’s eyes were big. Each room was more magnificent than the next. The ceilings must have been twenty-five feet high, but there was a coziness about the place. It was warm, inviting and saturated with class.
“You don’t live here alone?” she asked. “Most of the time. My nephew’s away at school, but when he’s in town he stays with me. And my grandson—only eighteen months old and already a heartbreaker, poo poo poo—comes to me when my daughter’s miserable husband allows it. That’s usually when he wants to go out and they can’t find a sitter. “The kid’s a genius. Not just because he’s mine, no one’s more objective than me. I’m telling you, the kid’s a genius!” They entered a small sunroom off the kitchen. It was an artist’s studio with canvasses in various stages of finish lining the walls. An easel stood in the middle of the room displaying a brightly colored modern piece. “Your work is so Brito,” Karen said, referring to the popular South Beach artist. “I guess that calls for a thank you. He certainly has inspired my style. C’mon, stay with me here.”
She opened French doors to the outside and led Karen around to the side of the house. “Ha. I thought so. His motorcycle is still here, so he has to be in his place. Feyzi doesn’t go anywhere without the bike. It’s his car.” “I rang the bell and called to him,” Karen replied. “This is strange. Considering that he phoned me and was in such a hurry to speak with me. It took me longer than I thought to get over here, though, and maybe something better to do came along. I don’t know, I’m just not feeling good about this.”
“Now this is odd. He usually has his mashugana music blasting. Says it keeps his mood aligned with his body or the moon or some such nonsense. So what’s it to me? If it makes him happy, fine. He’s a good tenant, and today that’s a difficult commodity to find. Aw, truth is, I like the kid. He’s got a good heart.” “You got a key?” Karen asked. “You got a warrant?” Mazie shot back. “No, I don’t want to search his place. I just thought maybe you could go in there and make sure everything’s okay. I think something’s off.”
“All right. I know what you mean. He’d almost have to be dead not to have his music blaring.” She lit yet another cigarette and sucked in a chest full of smoke, which threw her into another coughing spell. When it ended, she gasped, “Sometimes I think my cousin might be right.” “Well, um, that is a pretty nasty cough you have there.” “Yeah, really. Honey, I hear that so many times a day I should write a book about it.
Let’s go. I’ll get my key and we can make sure everything’s copesthetic with my boy here.” She looked at her watch and said, “Damn. I’m going to have to call Toy and tell her I’m running late.” Mazie told Karen to wait in the living room, where she tried to make herself comfortable on a Jean Harlow lounger. But the detective’s mind was racing and none of her thoughts were good. Her sixth sense had kicked in and she was anxious to get into that back house to allay her fears. “Okay, doll face. Let’s go see what’s going on at Feyzi’s.” It took a moment to adjust to the darkness in the guest house. The silence was deafening, and it smelled like pot with an overlay of incense. Patchouli, Karen thought. She remembered the scent from her early years. Her mother was a flower child in the 1960s and people were always teasing that she got time-warped and never made the transition to the conservative world of today. Karen couldn’t remember when, if ever, her mother had been without a cause to champion.
Mazie’s gravelly voice snapped her from her musings. “Feyzi! Hey! You got company.” There was no response. “His bedroom’s just upstairs, I’ll check on him.” Then she stopped and looked back at Karen. “You know what? You should come with me. The exercise’ll do you good.” “I’m right behind you.” Karen stayed close. Even in the guest house the appointments were exceptional. A sleek wood banister led up a graceful curve of heavily carpeted stairs. Mazie walked into one of the bedrooms without announcing herself. There was a short silence and then she bolted back out and grabbed Karen. “Oh my God, no!” She burst into a retching cough and Karen thought for a moment the poor woman was going to vomit. Then she got it together and gasped, “Karen! Come! It’s Feyzi!” And then she continued coughing.
Gunpowder. The smell of cordite accosted Karen’s senses. Mazie stood there with her mouth hanging open, her eyes the size of tennis balls. She reached out toward the body. Karen blurted, “Don’t touch anything!”
~~~
Aside from the actual players and associated staff related to football, I wanted to share the above scene which has no ability to give something away, except how wonderfully the author has written this particular character, who I really enjoyed getting to know through her words, and all of the other characters that were so wonderfully designed, as well as the solid, scenic description of those places used within the area where the author writes, such as City Hall (the restaurant).
Seriously, folks, the climax of this book is exceptionally spectacular--extraordinary--and truly unforgettable! Perhaps the best I have ever read--until Laurence's next book, at least...! And, she's done it right, by clearing all the questions that sometimes are left hanging...Hey, C. K. are there other books out there waiting? Without being a sports fan, I've still selected you as a new favorite author!
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