Flipping Out by Marshall Karp Read Free Book Online Page A

on
the mantel. 'Look boys, I know you got a homicide on your hands, but I'm
wasting oxygen here. Anything else before I get back to work?'
    'Can we get a
tour of the house?' Terry said.
    'I don't see why
not. Especially since your old lady has a piece of the action.'
    'Yeah, she's one
of those annoying five-percenters.'
    'Marilyn's not
so bad,' Marisol said. 'At least she doesn't think she's a princess.'
    'Right,' Terry
said. 'And I'd be willing to testify under oath that her shit definitely does
not smell like strawberries.'
    Marisol cracked
half a smile. 'You saw the cop car and the crime scene tape outside,' she said,
her tone slipping from bitch to sales-pitch mode. 'Since the house is about to go
on the market, it's been propped and decorated to reflect the murder house in
Nora's latest book. When we actually show it, the prospective buyers will be
guided around by actors wearing cop uniforms.'
    'And all that
hoopla affects the price?' Terry said.
    'People eat it
up,' she said. 'Our open houses are so popular that vendors set up on the
street to sell food to the gawkers. The House to
Die For open houses have edged out the LaBrea Tar Pits as the fourth
most popular attraction in LA.'
    'How about the BMW
in the driveway? Is that part of the draw?'
    'Hell, no.
That's mine. I got it in April. You like it?'
    'This
house-flipping business must be pretty good. I know you can't afford it on
Tony's salary,' Terry said.
    She grinned. 'No
way, Jose.'
    'Who's Joaquin?'
    The grin
disappeared. 'My brother,' she said. 'He died. Tony and I don't want kids, so
the car is my new baby. I gave it my brother's name. Come on, I'll show you
where the previous owner of the house was murdered.'
    We entered the
master bedroom. Just inside the door was an easel with a large card describing
the room and its fictional history:
    This is the 20' x 30' airy master
bedroom where the lifeless body of Stephen Driscoll was found sprawled on the
plush Berber carpeting, the sun streaming down on the tragic scene from the
three Velux electric venting skylights.
    Did the killer
lie in wait in the spacious walk-in closet or sneak softly across the
hand-stained cedar deck through the double-paned French sliding doors?
    Did he or she
quickly wash away the evidence in one of the his-and-her dual Kohler sinks, or
was there enough time to savour the deadly deed with a languishing soak in the
fifteen-jet, multi-speed Jacuzzi tub?
    Is this fiction,
or could Stephen Driscoll's nightmare become the home of your dreams?
    There was a
chalk outline in the centre of the room. Stephen's last glass of wine and his
open cell phone were lying on the floor. His stamp collection book sat on the
desk, open to a full page of stamps, minus one from the centre. Several other
clues were positioned around the room.
    'So who killed
him?' I said.
    Marisol flashed
a smile. 'You'll have to buy the book. Or buy the house, and we'll throw the
book in for free.'
    'Do you know who
killed Stephen Driscoll?' Terry said.
    'Damn straight I
do.'
    'And do you know
who killed Jo Drabyak?'
    'No. So get off
my case. Tough shit that she's dead, but I didn't have anything to do with it.
I may be a bitch, but I'm not a murderous bitch.'

Chapter
Fourteen
     
    We spent the rest
of the day interviewing people connected to Jo, one of whom was so thrilled
with her son's bar mitzvah party that she insisted on showing us pictures. We
talked to a caterer, a photographer, and a DJ, all of whom worked with Jo and
said they would miss her.
    'Personally and
financially,' the DJ added. 'She got me some great gigs.'
    'In that case,
we're twice as sorry for your loss,' Terry said.
    Chris High
tracked down a second neighbour who backed up the dog walker's story. He was
sure he had heard Jo pull into the garage at around eleven fifteen Sunday
night.
    Almost everyone
we interviewed asked the same question. Why would anyone want to kill her? It
was a good question. Except that we were supposed to be asking it, and they
were