Derek – Minna Hong

Rainbow Connection; chapter thirteen, part three

Posted on February 11, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

Rosie stole things from her employers, just as I surmised. Usually silver or jewelry, but once in a while, she’d have a sheaf of papers and wouldn’t tell Derek what they were. When I open my mouth to interrupt, Derek hurries on over my questions. The last time he saw her, he tried to find out obliquely if she was still stealing things. She just laughed at him and said that was penny-ante compared to what she had going on now. When Derek asked what she meant, she explained her newest venture to him. Venture. He makes it sound like she was an entrepreneur or a small-business owner, not the blackmailer she really was. She regaled him with stories of her clientele without revealing their identities. She said one had killed her husband; one had embezzled some money; one didn’t have the credentials she said she did; one was running an apartment scam. Things like that.

I couldn’t believe he hadn’t gone to the police, and I tell him so in no uncertain terms. I mean, we’re talking about blackmail. Derek doesn’t see it that way. In his eyes, all her clients deserved it because they are all liars and cheats and thieves, not to mention a killer. I look at him in disgust. This is the same man who works with juvenile delinquents, trying to rehab them. Does his attitude mean that he thinks they deserve whatever happens to them? I don’t ask because he’s still talking. He says the fact that Rosie’s clients live in Marin is a blackmailable offense. By now, he’s slurring his words which means I should get as much information out of him as quickly as possible and save my indignation for later. Besides, I’m hoping at some point he’ll realize if he had stopped her from continuing her ‘venture’, she’d still be alive.

“What else?” I massage my forehead, feeling the stirrings of a headache.

“Um, well,” Derek stalls again, refusing to meet my eyes. Suddenly, I get it and heave a big sigh.

“Derek, I don’t care if you slept with her,” I say earnestly, though Greta might care. A lot. “As long as it has nothing to do with her death.”

“No! It’s just, um, well, we had both drank a bit, and um, I invited her back to my place, just to reminisce some more. One thing led to another.” I look at him in exasperation. That is the lamest excuse in my book. One thing doesn’t lead to another, not without help. I don’t debate his statement, however, as it isn’t the point.

“So, when exactly did this happen?”

“The day before she was killed,” Derek says glumly. “I can’t believe she’s dead! We spent all afternoon in my bed talking and having sex. She told me one of her clients would be upping her payment. She was in such a good mood. When she left, she told me she’d call me after the deal went through. To celebrate. I waited all the next night for that call.” A call that never came. I have a ton of questions, most of them irrelevant to the case. I also remember the day in question at work—Derek had called in sick after taking off to see the counselor at the other agency.

“Has the police talked to you yet?”

Rainbow Connection; chapter thirteen, part two

Posted on February 6, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“The last day is especially interesting, don’t you think?” Leticia asks, her eyes watering.

“Yes.” I hesitate, then ask the question. “Do you think they’re related?”

“Yes,” Leticia says firmly. “That means the killer is in your group.” Her eyes widen as she looks at me. From the speculative gleam in her eyes, I can tell what she’s thinking.

“I didn’t kill your sister, Leticia,” I say wearily. It’s never pleasant to be thought of as a murder suspect, but I’m used to it.

“I didn’t think you did,” Leticia says immediately, the flash of fear gone. I pick up the accounts notebook and thumb through it again. A.T., C.R., C.T., L.P., M.S. I stop reading in disgust. It’s no use. If she had added some identifying markers to each name, such as what she’s blackmailing them for, then perhaps I could use the information. Something niggles at me. I open the diary and read the last entry again.

“Leticia, look at this!” I show the entry to Leticia.

“I’ve read it already,” she says impatiently, not glancing at the page. I don’t have time for attitude, so I read it out loud.

“This one, is very special. I play right, I no have to work rest of my life. Ten thousand dollars for first increased payment. Is fair for a life.” I pause dramatically, but Leticia’s eyes don’t flicker. “Don’t you get it? First increased payment. That means she was already blackmailing the killer!” I grab the accounts notebook and open it again. “One of these fifteen initials is the killer!” Ok, not the greatest grammar, but I got the point across.

“Madre de Dios!” Leticia gasps, scanning the initials. “Do you recognize any?”

“It’s hard,” I say slowly, my mind churning. “I only know the first name of the women in the group.”

“I could probably find the last names at the clinic,” Leticia says eagerly.

“A.T., M.S., T.R,” I recite. “Those are the possibilities. I am relieved not to see a R.L., as irrational as that is.

“I’ll ask Carol tomorrow,” Leticia says briskly.

“Can you find out some other way?” I ask slowly. There is no C.S., so she’s not a suspect. Still, I would feel better if Leticia didn’t talk about this with Carol.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Leticia says, energized to have something to do.

Rainbow Connection; chapter thirteen, part one

Posted on February 4, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

There is very little to be gleaned from my conversation with Derek other than Rosie’s strong sense of morality which only makes sense in the case of her murder if her belief system was her excuse for carrying out blackmail. Asking for money from people she didn’t approve of to care for her child might have seemed like some sort of poetic justice to her. Derek and I part, and I meander home. My head is pounding from too much information and not enough evidence. How I wish I had Paris here to bounce ideas off him—him and Lyle. Speaking of Paris, there is a message from him on my cell phone which I have forgotten to turn on. He is put out because he had to find out about Mariah’s death from the news. I call him when I reach home.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Paris’s voice has regained some of the vigor it had earlier lost. “Who’s going to be next? It better not be you! Tell me everything.” I tell him about Mariah’s death and what little information I have gathered about it. I still don’t tell him about the second attempt on my life or the threatening note in my pocket because there’s nothing he can do about it from Memphis, and the last thing he needs is to be worried about me.

“Enough of that. What about you? How are you?” I want to think about something other than the murders for a little bit even though I’d love to get Paris’s take on it. It’s clear, however, that his mind is focused on the situation with his family, and I want to be a good friend and support him.

He is at his wit’s end. His mother is wigging out. Last night, she started screaming and couldn’t stop. She kept saying it was her punishment for lying to Paris about being adopted. She started pulling out her hair, and her husband had to pin her arms behind her back to keep her from making herself bald. I ask about Lyle, hoping to take Paris’s mind off a difficult subject, but apparently, that is a touchy area as well. Lyle is trying to be supportive, but understandably, is under tremendous strain as well. He is spending the day alone because he needs some space. While Paris can understand the need, it still makes him panic. Any whiff of abandonment throws him into a tizzy, and they had a fight about it before Lyle took off. Paris isn’t sure he can come back Wednesday after all with his mom in such bad shape and Mr. Jenson not being any use at all. He just sits around, scowling, exhorting his wife to pull herself together. I vaguely remember Mr. Jenson from when the Jensons lived in Oakland, but that was years ago. He was very phlegmatic; I remember that much. Seems he’s crossed the line into asshole-ness.

“I don’t mean to be flippant, Paris, but what about your mother’s deep relationship with God? Isn’t that helping her at all?” I am not a Christian, but I admire the faith that devout Christians have. I wish I were that certain of a benevolent force having a positive interest in me.

“That’s the worst part, Rayne! She’s renounced God. She spent a half an hour calling Him every filthy name in the book. I never thought I’d see the day when I wished she would spout Bible verses at me.” Paris stops. I hear a distinct sniffle. “I don’t understand how someone’s faith can collapse like that. It’s as if she thought because she believed in God, she was protected from bad things.” I wonder if that’s why Rosie quit church as well. Her son’s death certainly seems like a catalyst for the catastrophic events to follow. I shake my head to remind myself that Ashley had been killed first. I have a gut feeling, however, that Rosie’s blackmailing hobby plays a large part in this whole mess. What if she found out something about Mr. Stevenson and tried to extort money out of Ashley? A glimmer of something niggles at my brain, but I can’t force it to the forefront. I let it simmer, hoping it’ll develop on its own.

“People deal with their grief in different ways, Paris,” I say soothingly, but honesty compels me to add, “Though I’m sure it’s not good to pull out your own hair. Have you talked to her about seeing a therapist?”

“We are not people who resort to therapist,” Paris says in a sing-song voice, obviously imitating his mother. Or perhaps his stepfather. “We take care of our own problems, thank you very much.” I restrain a sigh. That is such a prevalent feeling, even in this day and age, and it’s so destructive. I’m not advocating therapy for everyone or for every situation, and I balked at entering it myself, but at least I intellectually realize that there are some problems I can’t solve on my own and it’s not a weakness to seek out help. “I almost punched my stepfather when he said he’d take care of my mother himself. He’s doing a shitty job of it so far.”

“Maybe you should check out therapists yourself,” I suggest. I don’t want to widen the rift between Paris and his stepfather, but it’s clear that his mother is not coping well at all.

Rainbow Connection; chapter twelve, part two

Posted on January 30, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

My coworkers talk of Mariah’s death for the rest of the day. Obsessively. They are so consumed with it, they don’t realize that I’m not contributing anything to the conversations. I have several reasons for this. One, I still don’t want people to know my connection with the murders. Two, I’m disgusted with the avarice in their eyes as they babble about it. Three, I want to find out as much as I can which is better accomplished by listening than by talking. Four, it’s depressing. I also harbor a faint hope that by me not talking about it, others will follow my example. Fat chance. It’s all I hear about when I pass people huddled in conversation. Some of my coworkers are uncomfortable talking about it around me because of my past experiences with murder, but most pay me scant mind as they dish the dirt. Nothing will do but for them to dissect the latest murder from every angle until I’m ready to smack them all in the mouths.

Even the kids are talking about it and how whack it is to kill a shorty like that. They keep saying how someone that young couldn’t have dissed anybody bad enough to warrant death. It disturbs me that many of them believe death is a perfectly logical retaliation for disrespect, but it’s not my place to preach at them. They like me because I joke with them and give them a jovial hard time, but I don’t discipline them. I’m like the crazy aunt who brings cool presents from exotic places, but who disappears before the family can get too sick of her. The kids also like to try to wheedle treats out of me on the days I bring candy to the office. I usually let them; it’s why I bring the candy in the first place. No, the kids won’t be the reason I leave this job when I finally go.

“She was shot whereas her mother was strangled. I think that’s significant.” Alicia is talking in her solemn, counselor voice to Derek, one of the other counselors, in the hallway by her office. Alicia is one of those grandmotherly-looking woman, comfortably plump with gray hair worn up in a bun. The kids love being mothered by her so much, they keep returning even after they graduate. Not my idea of successful counseling, but nobody is paying me to have an opinion. Her office is down the hall approximately ten feet behind my desk, and she doesn’t bother to lower her voice. I’m an inanimate object to her; she sees no reason to dissimulate. “It denotes a great amount of rage towards the mother, thus the hands-on killing, whereas the daughter was more of a clinical kill.” I roll my eyes, hoping she doesn’t catch me. “He enjoyed killing the mother; he had to kill the daughter.” I pause. As much as I want to dismiss what she’s saying, she has a point. The contrast between the mother’s death and the daughter’s indicates differing motives for each. Rosie, strangled and dump in a dumpster like trash. Mariah, laid out respectfully with a rosary in her hand. Night and day.

“What about the first murder?” Derek asks skeptically. “How does that fit in your theory?” Derek has pushed for a significant raise every year he’s worked at the agency, legend has it. He’s been turned down every time, leaving him slightly bitter. Who can blame him? He’s been faithful to the agency for ten years and has had to watch the director pad his bank account while Derek’s has been depleted.

“I think it’s something completely different,” Alicia says pompously. “The police want the two deaths to be connected because it makes it easier for them. The latest death proves they’re not.” I don’t agree that it would be easier for the cops if the first two deaths are connected, but it’s possible there is no link between Ashley’s death and Rosie’s. Just because they’re in the same therapy group doesn’t mean the same person killed them both. It’s hard to believe, though, that this isn’t the case. The links between Rosie and Ashley run deeper than just group, and given Rosie’s emerging reputation, it makes perfect sense that she knew something about Ashley’s murder and instead of going to the police like she should have, she tried to blackmail the person in question.

“I wonder who’ll be next?” Alicia muses out loud. I can’t see Derek, but I assume he’s bored out of his mind. I am, and I’m only half-listening to Alicia.

“Can’t tell you. It better not be me, though.”

“Why would it be you?”

“I dated Rosie for a bit,” Derek confesses, lowering his voice. Fortunately, I have excellent hearing so I am able to catch every word. “What if it’s some maniac killing people who knew her?”

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