Iced

he was beginning to hate it. In the old days, his competition used the moniker to describe his cold-blooded approach to, what was it Trump called it? Oh yeah - "the art of the deal." He'd made a lot of money on those condo-pushing land grabbers, and he'd done it within the law. He didn't care what people called him. But ever since the cleaning crew had found his ex wife's perfectly manicured, Manolo-heeled body sprawled on the polished wood floor of his office on Bilbao Place, the whole "Icepick" thing had taken a bizarre turn. He couldn't say he was going to shed any tears for Lilli - the divorce had been unspeakably nasty and she'd taken him to the cleaners. But jeez, this was bad for business. He wasn't going to broker any deals from behind bars. from KimC

  Of course, Icepick was the first person visited by the L.A.P.D.  The husband or ex-husband is always a person of interest. Unfortunately, Icepick's true alibi for the night of the murder was not one he was willing to share.  That trip down to Mexico to pick up the exotic birds needed to remain confidential.  Perhaps his  import partner Pinky Tiberri would take the rap for the evening mission south.  And he could persuade Ramona, his on-again, off-again girlfriend,  to lie about the  evening in question.  It might cost a couple of expensive dinners, but that was fine.     from Lizet

It all took him back to when he was putting his "clients" on ice,  working  the night-shift at Sunset Horizons Mortuary. He used to tell his friends, over a high-end cuisine of rice, beans, and beer that "we don't have to travel far to work... just walk outside and scoop them off the side-walk".  He would then take them from the scalp, the ears, the neck - usually a vulnerable site for a 55-year old diceased vagrant  -- and to other areas where wounds would cleaned and the body respectfully if not curiously put to rest. Icepick got his name for his cool tough exterior in dealing with the death that seemed to crouch around Sunset Horizons.  What his name didn't belie was the dignity with whcih he treated his patrons as he prepared them for their final resting place.  Even without families to claim them, Icepick sensed that they had a bond. They were dead... he was waiting to die. Maybe they could teach him something, he didn't know. from camilek

     Icepick had a thought.  He figured if he could solve his ex-wife's murder, he would no longer be a person of interest to the L.A.P.D.  This would require some logical thinking; he'd better lay off the tequila sunrises for awhile.  Ah, tequila sunrises at sunset! Wait, he stiil had connections at Sunset Horizons Mortuary and that is where Chiquita was taken after the autopsy.  He could get a copy of the autopsy report and death cert; Icepick was starting to feel better. He had a plan! from Lizet

   He had to wonder, though, whether having "connections" at the mortuary was going to look strange to the cops.  Aw, of course it looked strange - who was he trying to kid? But everything about this was strange, already: That message about the office door being wide open put him at the crime scene just as the police had driven up.  

It didn't take him all that long to bond out of jail, but he still smelled like the lock-up.  He was a real estate shark, not a criminal lawyer, and he was really out of his element.  Icepick didn't know the magistrate at the arraignment, and didn't really know his own lawyer beyond the guy's highly-publicized reputation.

But he knew enough to start following the trail backward, and right now, that meant a trip to Sunset Horizons to check out the autopsy report. Icepick had ordered up the full mortuary makeover for "Chiquita." Jeez, Lilli had hated it when he called her that.  Guess that's why he did it.  The facial camouflage was going to cost a mint, but it  was the least he could do for a woman who wouldn't open the door to Fed-Ex without full makeup. 

And if he went cheapo with the dearly departed, it wouldn't look good - even though he had no financial obligation for her now.  But that was another problem entirely, because the sudden elimination of alimony looked like a motive.  

As he pulled into the mortuary parking lot in the rental car (his had been impounded) he made a mental note that the place was looking a bit shabby.  He'd pay to have the lawn mowed if he had to, because he wanted the funeral to look classy. But Lilli? Not sure what he could do to make her look better, no matter how much he paid. That bullet hole in the middle of her forehead was going to be tough to conceal.  from KimC

Icepick entered the lobby. Soft classical music wafted toward him. A 30ish plain-looking man working quietly at an oversized Federalist desk did not look up. The required mortuary setting – sedate, somber. Icepick approached. The man looked up.
“Ice! Hey guy. Thought you might come round.” The plain face broke into a character befitting Bill & Ted’s Execellent Adventure, Dude Where’s My Car or Pineapple Express depending upon your demographical point of view. Apparently, no grieving family members lurked about the building at the moment.
“George,” Icepick responded with the customary cool-dude slight head nod. “Guess you saw Lilli. When did she get here? Dandy Dave gonna work on her? The tone around the ‘back of the house’ at Sunset Horizons was always light. Nicknames required. George aka G-Man worked the front of the house, so he usually had to maintain the concerned caretaker façade. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s really like at a funeral home, ask someone who has worked a funeral directors' convention at a major hotel. The rowdiest, raunchiest bunch of conventioneers ever. All that keeping up a plaster face appearance has to crack sometime.
“Yeah, Dandy’s back there trying to get a fix on patching her up.”

from survey

"Yo DD. How's it hanging?" greeted Icepick.

"All the way to the ground Ice. You?"

"Feeling a bit shriveled my man. Any clues?"

"Yea, see, I'm not an ME but this does NOT look good."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well, all the Forensics I know I learned from "Bones" reruns. I'm not even supposed to be speculating, Just patching and paining. But look here." Dave pointed at the side of Lilli's head where a dime sized, discolored hole interrupted the smooth  plane of her forehead.

"Ya, hole in the head. Cause of death. So?"

"Not cause of death. If it was, there would be considerably more blood stain and bruising. This was administered post-mortem."
"You been watching too many forensics shows dude. This - "

"no, look at the throat."

"I don't see anything...."

"Right here." Dave's finger traced a barely visible crimson line above the collar bone.

"looking like she got strangled with something really thin and strong."

"Like?"

"Dude, I don't know. Maybe piano wire - no, that would cut into the skin. I don't know. But that's not the important part."

"Ya?" asked Icepick perplexed.

"What is?"

"Well, two things: the throat injury does not show up anywhere on the autopsy report, nor does the blunt force trauma on the back of the head. Want me to turn her over so you can see?"

"No!... I mean, no, I'll take your word for it. So the ME missed it....? So , what?"

"Well, ask yourself: Why would someone poke a hole in your ex - with something that might look like an ice pick, Icepick - after they bludgeoned her and strangled her?"

Ice smacked his fore head. "Damn it!"

"That's right baby. someone's trying to frame  you."

"But who?" wondered Ice Pick.

from thesamim

“I’ve got to get to the bottom of this,” Icepick muttered. “Has anyone else been around asking about Lilli?”

“Yeah, that weird chick, Pinky. Man, I don’t know what you see in that bitch. Didn’t stay long, but I think she might have seen the ME’s report when I went to grab a tool. She left right after that. Psycho bitch. All friendly one minute, then get-your-hand-off-my-ass the next.” Dave shrugged.

“Pinky? I better find her. Thanks man, give me a call if anyone else shows up, will ya?” Icepick turned toward the door.

from boardpres

“Psycho bitch,” mumbled Dave as he resumed work on Lilli. “Ah babe, now why’d you go and get yourself dead. You, I liked, even if you did drain Icepick like a swamp full of alligators.”

“Get her lookin’ good, man. Make me proud.” Icepick left by way of the back door and headed to the rental car, a white Chevy Malibu. Pinky, he thought, sliding into the drivers seat. He cranked the engine and drove toward the warehouse where he and Pinky stashed exotic birds en route to buyers who don’t ask for sales receipts. The warehouse was more than off the main roads. Parrots and other exotics are damn noisy, too noisy to be anywhere near passersby. It was about a two hour drive from Sunset Horizons to the warehouse, Wing Bucket as he called it. Easy enough to say “want me to pick up a bucket of wings, regular or spicy?” in a phone conversation that might be overheard. Can’t say “time to deliver that Scarlet Macaw or Lilac-breasted Roller” if anyone is nearby.

Deliveries became more complicated when Icepick left Sunset Horizons. Caskets are ideal shipping containers. No one pays much attention to a casket. People don’t like to think about death, so they usually avoid caskets. Like not thinking about death will prevent it. Silly superstitions hold on, even in sophisticated society. The legal business, unfortunately, doesn’t supply such easy transport opportunities. But that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to get out of the bird biz. Damn student loans for law school just wouldn’t cover themselves. It’s much easier to get hooked on money than it is to give it up. Hey, pass more wings please.

from Wordlinger

Even on a good day, the drive from LA to Escondido was a haul, but the rent was cheap and the location was perfect. If you rented warehouse space in San Diego, the cops were on you all the time looking for stuff smuggled out of Mexico, and with good reason.  But Escondido? Not so much.  And it was still only about a half-hour to the border.

The building sat at the back of the industrial park, sandwiched between the railroad tracks and a narrow road that let him bring Pinky's truck in and out without being observed by the other tenants.  Not that they'd care: The nearest neighbor, Ted was so busy tending the crop he had growing under the lights in the attic that he wouldn't notice the noise when they brought the birds in from Mexico. And when he was actually working on that crappy, lodge-style furniture he sold over the internet, the sound of his power tools would drown out anything.

Pinky's truck was parked out front as he pulled in.  Funny, the cargo mirror on the passenger door was gone - looked like it had been scraped clean off. They'd have to get that fixed, pronto. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over by some safety-minded traffic cop.

As he was standing at the truck, visually measuring the long scratch that marked where the mirror had come flying off, Pinky came backing out of the warehouse double doors.  It was her best side, he'd always thought.  She was struggling under the weight of a large, cardboard box, which she dropped with a thud when she turned around to  find Icepick standing before her.

"Jesus, Ice - you trying to scare me to death ?" 

She was sweating - hard - and she didn't look happy to see him.     

from KimC

“Funny you mention death,” said Icepick. “What the hell were you doing at Sunset Horizons?”

“I’ve been here most of the day. What are you talking about?” she replied.

“Stop lying, Pinky. Dave told me you were there this morning. I just left the place.”

“Hey, just trying to protect my investments buddy boy. That detective breathing down your neck about Lilli’s murder puts us both in jeopardy. Now give me a hand.”

from boardpres

"What have you got in here?" Icepick huffed as he picked up one end of the big box.  "This thing weighs more than my Aunt Martha."

"As I recall, your Aunt Martha passed away a couple of years ago," replied Pinky, wiping sweat from her brow.  "It doesn't do to speak ill of the dead."

"There you go again, gettin' all superstitious on me again," grumbled Icepick, not noticing how deftly Pinky had avoided his question.  "You spend way too much time with that Cajun grandma of yours, talking voo-doo and I don't know what else."

Pinky and Icepick gave the box one last heave and slid it onto the truck's bed.  Pinky then hot-footed it around to the driver's side and hopped in.

"Thanks for the assist," she hollered as she pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Icepick standing alone, breathing hard, having no answers to the questions that seemed to be cropping up all over the place.

from TexasWordsmith

It was time for a break. Icepick drew a pack of Nat Shermans out of his coat pocket and placed one thoughtfully in the corner of his mouth. The day was humid, and overcast, and the tobacco smelled moldy, reminded him of a less fortunate day in which he'd smoked a Liggett instead. That was the day he'd walked in to see the place gutted. Every piece of furniture, electronics, and just junk, expensive and cheap, followed that woman out the door. Sure he'd expected it, but the hollow white walls had felt unexpectedly colder than any poor collage student's empty studio. And that Liggett had gotten moist in the rain.

At least he hadn't had to do the physical labor of moving. Christ, his back already ached from Pinky's one box. Not as young as you used to be, he reminded himself. Gotta take it easy. Not that you ever do.

Tossing the smoldering butt on the ground, Icepick reached for another smoke. The flickering flame from his lighter caught a glint of metal. His hand paused. Next to his foot was an icepick, a flake of blue paint hanging off of it.

He goggled a moment before catching himself. "Damned coincidence." He said out loud to no one. Cigarette still lit, he turned and went inside.

from Aylce

At the LAPD homicide unit offices, Detective Dirk Greer scrolled down entries on one of the two monitors dominating his desktop, looking for suspicious financial records. Lilli was the hottest babe to land on him in more than a year. Too bad she was dead. But that didn’t stop Dirk the Dick from falling hard for her. The case seemed easy enough, too easy. Gunshot to the head, obvious cause of death. Found in office of ex-husband, a GD lawyer. Named Icepick. Hell, that’s enough to close the case. And get a conviction. But Lilli’s manicured nails clawed at Dirk’s gut.

from survey

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, scraping the crime scene photos of Lilli into his top desk drawer and turning back to the monitors.  Dirk opened the bank file on the too suspicious Mr. Schmidt, and started running the numbers: the monthly income was OK to start with, but the bottom line took a real dive last year when the alimony checks started showing up in the debit column. Lilli was pulling down $7,500 a month from her ex, which was enough to make a lot of guys grab a gun.

“Big bills at Five Points Liquor,” he scribbled on a notepad.  And the poor slob ate at the same restaurant four or five times a week since the divorce.  Pitiful, but not suspicious.

He jotted down the $1,530 a month to a real estate company in Escondido, figuring anything that close to the border was worth checking out.  But that $15,000 cash withdrawal two weeks before Lilli’s death? That was a grabber.     

from KimC

Dirk picked up the phone. "Numbers," he said into the phone, speaking to Darryl Halloway, the LAPD's financial forensic guru. "Have you gotten into the Schmidt case yet?"

"No, thought that was open-and-shut."

"Not yet. Look into his withdrawals a couple of weeks before the murder. And payments on real estate in Escondido. Something stinks. Maybe you can sniff it out." Dirk put the phone down when a woman in tight jeans, orange tank top and large loop earrings walked up to his desk.

"You the detective in charge of the Schmidt case?" Her eyes pierced his weathered skin and made Dirk sweat.

"Yeah. What can I do for you?" He hoped for an answer unrelated to the case.

"I'm Pinky Tiberri. Maybe I can do something for you."

You already have, thought Dirk.

from Wordlinger

     Dirk stood up, walked around to the other side of his desk, and pulled out the chair for her.  It  looked like she'd fall off those heels if she didn't sit down pretty soon.
     "Have a seat, Ms. Tiberri," Dirk said.  "Which Schmidt are we talking about, here."
     "Which one do you want to talk about," Pinky asked, dropping into the chair. "They're both what you'd call pretty colorful characters."
     "Let's start with your pal, Icepick."
     Pinky leaned forward, and propped her elbows on the metal desk. "He's not my pal, he's my responsibility," Pinky said.  "Ice is a sweetheart, but he's not the smartest guy in town, know what I mean? We kind of grew up together, and just before Ice's mom died, she made me promise to keep an eye on him."
    Dirk  tred to imagine this overblown character as Icepick's guardian angel. It wasn't working for him. "That's very interesting, but what does that have to do with Mrs. Schmidt's murder?"
    "Plenty. Poor ol' Ice didn't have a clue about Lilli's after-hour activities."

from KimC

Pinky continued, “Heard of the Malibu Madame?”

“This is homicide, not vice, Ms. Tiberri.” Dirk had heard of her; who hadn’t? Lilli was hot enough to be one the Malibu Madame’s girls. Pinky too. His eyes stroked Pinky’s long legs, and he wondered if she was one of MM’s girls. Maybe she would wear fishnet stockings on request. He’d heard the four and five figure prices MM charges are reasonable considering there were no limits on special requests.

“Detective Greer?”

Pinky’s voice called Dirk back from his personal journey. He replied softly, “Dirk,” then, “Detective. Yes, uh, are you saying Lilli Schmidt worked for the Malibu Madame?”

“Lilli was the Malibu Madame.” Pinky’s eyes locked on Dirk’s face to see his reaction.

from boardpres

“No, she’s not. I know-.” Dirk caught himself and stopped. “Do you have proof?”

Pinky knew it was true. She had heard Detective Dirk Greer was dirty. Now she knew it. His first reaction gave it away. Word on the street was that the Malibu Madame had a guardian angel inside police circles, and Pinky’s sources told her it was Greer. She could use him to clear Icepick. And to get the heat off so they could resume sales of their inventory. Bunch of squawking, pooping birds. She didn’t get in the business to take care of the damn things, just to move them along for money. Her house was overrun with the blasted noisy beaks.

“I know someone who does,” she replied. 

from saclamb