Side Effects

by Eric Dalen

"I think she's dead."

I had been taking my dog on a nice Sunday walk along the beach when I heard this. The kids had already caught my attention, standing in a circle, around someone lying on the sand.

I moved in and looked. Whoever had said "I think she's dead" was right. She was dead, contorted and not breathing. I squatted and felt for a pulse. Nothing, though the skin was still warm. I unclipped the cell phone from my belt as I stood, and looked at each of the faces standing around me and the body -- three males and two females. They were all in bathing suits. And since they were all about high school age, they all had that sickening healthy glow to them that would have made anyone in my generation feel defective. I dialed 911.

"Anyone know her name?" I asked as I waited for my phone call to be answered. Stanley, was smelling the dead woman's feet, his snout nudging her heel as if to wake her up. The body was twisted from the fall, hips going one way, one arm invisible beneath her, the other thrown behind her back, face buried in the sand. Hard to tell who she was.

The teenagers all shook their heads, one girl saying "She wasn't in our group."

"Operator 241," a voice said in my ear. "What is your emergency?"

"I want to report a victim from a fall. I'm on Stetman Beach, just below the cliffs." I told the operator the rest of what I knew -- that I had found the body of a female at the base of the cliffs, and that she was not breathing and I could not find a pulse.

The operator said she would dispatch paramedics and police immediately and thanked me for calling.

"Anybody see anything?" I asked the firm young bodies. They all shook their heads no, transfixed by the dead person. Stanley sat and panted, no longer interested.

"I thought I saw something," one boy said. He had one of those stupid haircuts -- buzz-cut short around the sides and long and unruly on top. He had a tattoo of some sort of strange animal on his chest over his left nipple. I wondered what kind of blobby thing it would look like in twenty years. Then I wondered what kind of idiotic parents would let their flesh and blood go around with a stupid haircut and a tattoo of a strange animal. "I was, you know, body surfin' and when I came up, I thought I saw something fall you know, but when I cleared my eyes I didn't see it. The water is, you know, below, like, the beach."

The water is below the beach. Somehow, that made sense to me -- from the ocean, he could not see the body. "How long ago was that?"

"Five minutes, maybe."

Judging from his wet mop head and the beads of water on his skin, that would be about right. I checked my watch -- 3:35. So she hit the ground at half-past.

"Then I came up on the beach to get my towel, you know, and I saw her," he added.

That would be about the same time I saw the body from down the beach and thought something was wrong. The kids were just approaching then.

The paramedics beat the police by at least five minutes, and Stanley greeted them with a friendly bark and a fiercely wagging tail. They ignored him.

When they turned the body over, one of the girls said "Oh!"

We all looked at the girl, even Stanley.

"It's Shari," she said.

"Shari who?"

"Shari Barile."

The boys all nodded, and the other girl looked shocked -- that, or she was going to be sick.

"She was Prom Queen a couple of years ago," the boy with the blonde conservative haircut said. He had muscles that didn't look natural.

"Which school?"

"La Puera," three of them said in unison.

* * *

When the detectives finally arrived, they questioned me as if I was the one who pushed the girl off the cliff, especially after they discovered I was Michael Dastoli, disgraced former member of their ranks. I let them play the little game.

"So what were you doing here?" Detective Portman said, still snide and unpleasant after his partner wandered off.

"Walking my dog. I live off Beach Canyon Road."

He sniffed and looked out toward the waves before turning his head back to me. "Oh ... so, is that where the money went?" He chuckled.

I gritted my teeth, feeling the anger flush my face. Portman's face had settled into a ghost of a smirk as he looked back at the water.

I waited until I could un-grit my teeth. "The kids say the girl was La Puera's Prom Queen."

"What kids?"

"The kids who left because it took you too long to get here."

He clucked his tongue. "Did you get their names?"

"I know the victim's name is Shari Barile."

Portman squinted at me as if I was too bright for him, then he turned and stomped off to the body, pulling up the white sheet. He said something to his partner, whom I had yet to be introduced. The partner said "The actor?"

* * *

It was almost ten that night when the phone rang and a voice asked if I was Michael Dastoli. When I said yes, the man asked if he could come by to see me.

"That depends," I said. "Who are you?"

"Andrew Barile," he said. He didn't need to say more, and he knew it. Fame can do that to a person.

Barile showed up about five minutes later -- which means he lives closer to me than I thought, or was already in his car when he called. He was everything he is on the movie screen, only in actual size and not dressed as well. His sharp, expressive eyes were signaling a combination of anger and sorrow, which could have come off as an overdone acting job if he hadn't underplayed it. Still, he was every bit as handsome as he thought he was, with just enough vulnerability to pretend he didn't care.

"You found my daughter?" His eyes were hopeful, yet challenging. No wonder he was an actor -- I couldn't make my eyes do that with a mirror and a month's practice.

"Me and some kids, yes. Please sit," I said, gesturing toward the couch.

As he sat, Stanley wandered into the room and noticed the new guest, tail erupting in a frantic wag. The actor petted him, and Stanley responded by sticking his snout in the man's crotch. I snapped at Stanley with a command that was, as usual, ignored. I grabbed the dog and pulled him backward, apologizing to my guest.

Apparently, Stanley had been outside and had taken a drink of water, which now left a big wet spot in Mr. Barile's groin.

"Oh, gad," I said, sounding like an idiot.

"It's alright, I have two Great Danes. They have big mouths."

They have big everythings, I thought. Stanley was a cross between a German Shepherd and something unidentifiable, so he had a big snout and attaching mouth.

Barile crossed his legs and almost smiled. My ex-wife would have passed out in a full-blown swoon. I could almost hear her voice saying "Lucky dog, lucky dog ..."

"The police told me not to talk with you," he said, and I realized a little better the type of personality I was dealing with -- not only disarming with his looks and body language, but with his language -- confronting people before there was a reason to confront them.

"Yeah, that sounds like them."

"Why would they say that? Are you trouble?"

His slight accent was playful. If I were blind, I would have thought he was smiling.

"They have their side of the story, and I have mine."

"You were a cop?"

I nodded.

"How long ago?"

"Two-and-a-half years."

"Did you leave ... or were asked to leave?"

I looked down at Stanley, who was comfortably lying near my feet, panting, dripping slobber on the carpet. "Mr. Barile, I think you have more pressing matters at hand than my life history."

His face softened as his eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do, and I'm trying to see if I can trust you with them." He paused, rubbing his hands and watching himself do it. "I don't like that cop. I don't trust him." He looked up, contempt now playing on that theater of a face.

"Portman?"

"Yes. Shari is my daughter -- how can I trust a cop I don't like?"

I nodded, something I'm good at.

"You were there, you were a cop, and I want to know if I can trust you."

"With what?"

"My daughter. I need to know --" He stopped, looking past me somewhere out the window to my tiny backyard. Then he looked down, away, blinking. "I just need to know," he said.

"And you want me to investigate?"

"Of course. I want the truth."

I thought this over. I could get some help from a friend in the department, but I'd be working mostly from scratch on everything. I could probably get more information than Portman, considering his snide-and-arrogant demeanor was not conducive to opening people up. I also knew that whatever dollar amount I threw out would not result in an argument from Mr. Barile, so I gave him something respectably high without being insulting and he nodded, barely thinking about it. I added that I was not a licensed private investigator nor a law enforcement official, bla bla bla bla bla, and he nodded again not even bothering to listen.

"Would you like anything to drink?"

He thought for a moment. "Coffee?"

I nodded. "Just a moment."

When I returned with the coffee, I asked him about his daughter.

He offered a sad smile. "What can I say? She was the love of my life. A joy." He paused, looking past me again. His eyes slowly filled up, and he tried to blink them clear. "She used to call me Big Daddy," he said. "She heard it on TV when she was eight, and--" He stopped, looking down at his hands.

Andrew Barile, the actor, was gone, replaced by Andrew Barile, the father.

He talked for almost an hour.

* * *

The kid with the tattoo and stupid haircut was named Ben, with a last name that was both unpronounceable and unspellable, at least by me. It seemed to have no vowels: Krnylyzywlskrt, or something like that. You could get it wrong and no one would be able to correct you.

It was the next morning, a Monday, and Ben was at the beach, apparently skipping school. I ran into him while walking Stanley again. He was in a T-shirt and the same swim trunks he wore the day before. At least his hair was dry, though he kept running his hand through the unruly locks, making them look more stupid by the minute.

"Shari was cool," he said, sitting on the sand just down a ways from yesterday's incident. "Everyone liked her."

He had a funny twinkle in his eye, which I quickly interpreted. "Everyone?"

"Yeah. Well, not the girls you know, but the guys dug her."

I'd spent a total of five minutes with Ben, and now realized the 60's had never really gone away. They got passed on in the genes.

"Did she party?"

"Oh, yeah. She was like, you know, very hospitable." Then he cackled and I wondered if Ben was not above a little recreational marijuana to kick-start his mornings.

"Was she hospitable to you?"

"Of course. I don't know anyone she didn't do. Except the girls you know." Then he looked at me with a world-wise grin. "She'd swirl with three or fours guys at a time. How do you think she got to be Prom Queen?" Then he cackled again.

This is our future, I thought.

"When was the last time you ... she was hospitable?"

"With me? Oh, you know like a year, year and a half ago, before she graduated. She liked younger guys."

"When was the last time you saw her, you know, around?" I moved my hand in a circle, hoping he would get what around meant.

"Like hanging? Not likely. She blew this town. More like on video."

I raised my eyebrows. "She acted?"

My friend Ben cackled again, rocking back on his butt to the point of almost falling over. "Yeah, she acted. Not likely." He sat upright and shook his head. "She was hot. She turned eighteen and bolted to the valley, working for a couple of studios."

"Do you know which studios?"

He snorted and looked out at the waves pouring onto the beach. "I don't know. Adult, you know? She went from Prom Queen to Porn Queen."

* * *

The girl who looked like she was going to vomit on the deceased yesterday appeared much better today. Her name was Autumn Shadows Miller. She even showed me her driver's license, which meant her parents had done that to her. She was pleasant if a bit shy and soft-spoken.

"Shari was in my Algebra class," Autumn said. "I was a junior and she was a senior. It was her second time taking Algebra." We stood in her backyard as she watched over her younger brother and his two friends in the pool. She was not skipping school, having graduated the previous June.

"What was she like?"

"She liked to joke. She would take whatever the boys said, and throw it back at them. She wasn't afraid of anything."

"Did she have any steady boyfriends?"

"Other than the football team?" Bitterness had escaped, and she looked at me with disgust, as if I was the problem.

"I mean a steady boyfriend. Like for more than a few hours."

Her face softened. "A few. Bryant. Squid. Doug."

"Squid?"

"Squid Daniels. I don't remember his real name. He was on the swim team."

"Was he the last you know of?"

She nodded. "But that was like a year ago. Or more. They had a big blow out. She flirted with other guys, and he didn't like that. Then they broke up right before she graduated, and she left town."

"Went to the valley?"

Autumn looked at me, then at her brother, who was preparing to do a cannonball. "Somewhere inside her was a nice person. You could see it sometimes, wanting to come out."

Ker-sploosh. The cannonball had been successful.

"I don't know why she became so ... so icky." She looked at me with an open curiosity. "Do you think she was murdered?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea. That's what I'm trying to find out."

* * *

Squid Daniels was an arrogant little boy in a man's body. The attitude came off him even as he swam, his arms swinging and striking the water with rash authority, legs kicking in strong, ungraceful strides. When he reached the end, he stopped and didn't bother to look around to see if he won. He knew he had -- rather, he thought he had. I'm no expert, and I wasn't in the best position to see, but I thought the kid three lanes over won by a hair.

Squid came out of the swimming pool as the coach snapped at him, calling it "close." I turned my head to look at the coach. His eyes met mine and looked away. He had seen what I'd seen: Squid had come in second. I could only guess why the coach went easy on him.

Squid ignored the coach and headed for me. He was tall, maybe six-three, and his body was completely smooth ¾ head, face, chest, arms, legs, all shaved of hair. I'd heard swimmers often did this for better dynamics and less friction in the water, but it made Squid look weird, like a monk in some minimalist clothing sect. He still had his eyelashes, I noticed. No eyebrows, but eyelashes.

The other kids were coming out of the pool, collecting their towels and following Squid, heading for the locker room.

"Can I speak with you?"

Squid looked almost as if he expected me. He gave me a crooked smile, smarmy. "Sure." He directly himself at the bleachers and climbed into the second row -- so he could stretch his longs legs over the first. The other five swimmers filed past as if in a Speedo bathing suit modeling show.

"I'm Michael Dastoli," I said, offering my hand.

He took it as if he were doing me a favor, giving an obligatory squeeze.

"I barely pulled that one out," he said, not looking at me. "Saving myself for the meet tonight."

I nodded. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about Shari Barile."

His head whipped around as if slapped. "What about her?"

"Did you hear what happened?"

He actually sneered. "Yeah. What of it?"

"When did you last see her?"

Squid squinted at me, more than a little suspicious. "You're from the paper?"

"No. I've been asked to look into her death."

He thought about this. "By who?"

"When was the last time you saw her?"

He eyed me as if I was about to slap him again. "You mean other than on video?"

I was getting annoyed that he was asking as many questions as I was, but I didn't let it show. "Yeah."

"A few months ago." Squid sat up, leaning his forearms on his knees, still dripping wet. He was the only one without a towel. "She wanted to talk about old times," he said, the smarmy grin on his face again.

"Did you?"

He laughed. "Sure. I never turn down free stuff."

"Why did she break up with you?"

That wiped the smile away. "No, no man, you got it wrong. I broke up with her. I booted her ass out. She begged me not to do it, but I told her you want to be flirtin' with other guys, you go right ahead. I won't endorse that."

I paused, in case there might be anything more. "Did you know she was back in town?"

His eyes, filled with fire a moment ago, cooled. He looked at the still-anxious waters of the pool. It took him a minute to decide to tell me.

"Yeah. She called." He ran a hand over his bald head. It squeaked.

"What did she want?"

I almost expected him to say She wanted me back, but he took it a step further. Macho pride is rarely subtle.

"She wanted to know if I'd be interested in doing a film with her. She recommended me to a director because I'm, like ... you know." He grinned and raised his hairless eyebrows.

"Where were you yesterday?"

His smile faded. "You mean, like, the whole day?"

I looked up to the sky as if thinking. "Oh, say between 3 and 4 in the afternoon."

Squid looked up to the sky too, maybe thinking I was looking at something. "I was either sleeping or watching TV." Then he looked at me again. "Why? You think I did it?"

"Did what?"

He snorted. "Killed Shari!"

"Who said anyone killed her?"

His mouth opened to say something, then shut it hard, his teeth snapping together. His face went through a few attempts at trying on different looks before it gave up. He stood and said "I have to go."

* * *

At home, I played back my messages, the first and only from Howie Adams, a PI friend of mine in Hollywood. I'd called him that morning to see what he could turn up on Shari Barile.

"Hey, Mikey," the disembodied voice said. "That chick you had me check on is into skin flicks. Goes by the name Anita Lay. Her dad's that Andrew Barile dude ¾ the Latino actor. Hunky, handsome. I thought, wow, I didn't even know he had a daughter, much less one doing the wild thing for video. Big secret, right? Wrong. Not for long, anyway. National Enquirer is coming out with the news in its next issue. There's more. Call me when --"

The machine had cut him off. I reached for the phone to call Howie back, when it rung.

"Hello?" I said.

"Mr. Dastoli," a lightly accented voice said. "It's Andrew Barile. I was just calling to see if you had found anything yet."

"You could say that." I paused, collecting my thoughts. "Did you know your daughter was involved in the adult film business?"

There were five full seconds of silence before he answered. "Yeah. So?"

That threw me off for a moment. "That didn't bother you?"

"Of course," he said with anger. "How would you feel? Don't be silly."

"Why didn't you mention it to me yesterday?"

"Why does it matter?" He was trying to mask the anger now. "It's an embarrassing and unfortunate part of our family's history, but it doesn't matter." He paused. "What have you found." It wasn't a question, but a demand.

"If you had told me everything, it would have saved me a lot of time. What else is there?"

He ignored my question. "You mean you haven't found anything?" His voice was more perplexed than irritated -- but not by much.

"I've been wasting my day asking questions you could have filled me in on last night."

There was silence from his end.

"The National Enquirer has found out. They're going to print it next week."

Nothing from his end.

"I'll call you when I know something more." I hung up, then dialed. When the phone was answered, I said, "It's Dastoli. You said there was more?"

Howie didn't hesitate: "She was pregnant."

"How in the world do you know that? I don't even think the coroner's done the autopsy yet."

"I talked to one of her porn film friends -- someone named Tracy Velvet. Can you believe these names? Anyway, seems Miss Lay had visited a doctor about a month ago. She was about eight weeks along."

"She was eight weeks along a month ago?"

"But wait, there's more: Guess what other test turned up positive?"

"What?" I asked as I thought about it. "HIV?"

"Bingo. Give the boy a prize."

I sat down, trying to absorb this. "So, she was HIV positive, pregnant and about to be revealed to the world as the daughter of a film sensation."

"Oh, I think that last one had already happened. It was just that no one knew why it mattered."

I thought about it for a few more seconds, then said "Thanks," before hanging up the phone. I dialed again, asking for an old friend in the department. I was his partner when he first got into uniform, and I helped show him the ropes. When I got into trouble, he was one of the few who backed me. I owed him a lot, but he seemed to think he owed me more.

"Spangler," he said.

"It's Dastoli. How's it going?"

"Oh not bad. Passed my kidney stone yesterday."

"Good for you. Did you keep it?"

He chuckled. "Why does everyone ask me that? You think I'm going to fish around in the toilet for that trophy? Good riddance."

"You're supposed to pee in a cup or something."

"Oh, that would have gone over great with the wife. She would be thrilled for me to pee in her dishes. What's up?"

"Following up on the Barile matter. Heard anything?"

"I knew you were gonna call on that. I think you owe me a lunch."
"You mean you've already checked?"

"Service is my middle name. Anything I can do to help."

"Then I'll take you to Angelo's. Was Portman wondering why you were asking?"

"Portman is an idiot, and not even an interesting one." He paused and sipped some coffee. "Rache gave me the info. Things are moving."

"Oh, do tell." I clicked on a pen, ready to take notes.

"First, it seems someone saw the girl at the top of the cliffs arguing with some guy. Then, someone else saw a sports car speeding away. Got the license number. Turned out to be the girl's manager. You know she was in X-rated films, right?"

"Yep. She had a manager?"

"Rusty O'Toole, if you can believe it. Guy's a turd. Says he loved her, asked her to stop 'acting' and just be with him. Swears he only dropped her off -- didn't push her."

"Then who did?"

"He doesn't know. We found something else. A package, small, all wrapped up. Got some fingerprints off the paper. Haven't identified them yet."

"Was it a gift?"

"A watch. Fancy. Inscribed 'For Shari -- Always, BD.'"

"BD?"

"Like Baker David."

"What does Portman think?"

"He thinks it's suicide."

"What?" I said before I burst out laughing.

"He's got this whole thing worked out based on the fact that most porn actresses are drug addicts."

"They are?"

"A lot of them, yeah. So he believes this girl got all washed out on drugs and walked off the cliff."

"And what about the watch?"

"He thinks that's unrelated. She dropped it in despair, or some such crap."

"Tox report?"

"Hasn't come back yet."

"And this Rusty?"

"He thinks Rusty is a pimp who calls himself a manager and who fell in love with one of his clients."

"So he's buying Rusty's story?"

"For the most part, yeah."

I tapped my pen, looking out over my untidy living room, thinking. I needed to clean up. The coffee cups were still out from Barile's visit.

"She was pregnant, Bill," I said. "Pregnant and HIV positive."

Spangler was silent for several moments. "Really?"

"The coroner will have to verify, but I think so."

"Occupational hazard?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Seems she had a lot of free practice before she went pro."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"You may want to tell Rache to keep that fingerprint around," I said. "It may come in handy when the tox reports come back negative on the drug analysis."

"Will do."

We hung up.

Pregnant. HIV. Drugs. If true, Shari Barile was one messed-up little girl.

Portman would find out about the pregnancy, and the HIV status, and maybe the toxicological tests would come back showing Shari was full of drugs at the time of her death. Which would give Portman a suicide theory on a golden platter.

I had a different idea. And a different suspect.

I called information and gave them the name. Then I dialed the number. A woman answered, and I identified myself. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Okay," she said without much enthusiasm.

"What's your son's first name?"

She was silent for a few moments. "Bartholomew."

"Thank you. May I speak to him please?"

"Just a minute," his mom said, and I didn't know whether to feel sorrow or anger over her complicity in her son's behavior.

"Yeah?" Squid said.

"Hi Bart. When you last saw Shari, did you use a condom?"

He paused, probably wondering who I was. Then, having figured it out, he snorted. "No way. No one's ever going to make me put on one of those things."

"You knew she was pregnant."

A long silence.

"Yeah."

"Too bad," I said. "You'll need to see a doctor."

"Why?" His voice was mocking. I could picture his face perfectly.

"Why do you think?" I said, and hung up.

For Shari -- Always, BD.

Bartholomew Daniels?

* * *

The problem with suspicion was that it needs proof to graduate into becoming the truth. I didn't even have clues, much less proof. I'd have to earn that. All I had was a few random pieces and I didn't quite know what the puzzle looked like. I would have to be careful. And I needed to think.

I decided to clean my house. I only do this two or three times a year -- at least with any thoroughness -- so I had a lot to do.

I was about halfway through when it dawned on me. I was standing in the living room, holding coffee cups and saucers, listening to Stanley outside the glass door whining to be let in, and I knew. I don't know why I knew, and worse, I didn't know if I was right, but it made some sense. Sort of.

I put down the dishes and went to the kitchen for a Zip-Loc baggie.

It was really pretty easy after that.

* * *

Rache looked like a hero, and I got to watch, even though it was my script.

Rusty was a turd, with an ugly shock of red hair that hadn't seen a comb in some years. I can't imagine why any girl would want him to touch her, much less have sex, but life is full of mystery.

First Rache asked Rusty what time he dropped Shari off.

"About three, I guess."

He asked some other questions, though that was the only important one.

Then we tracked down the witness who saw the sports car zoom away and Rache asked what time that was.

"Around three. Maybe a little after."

Then we found the other witness and Rache asked what time he saw the man and woman arguing at the top of the cliffs.

"Right at three-thirty. I know because my watch beeped." He looked at me. "It beeps at the top of the hour and half-past." He held it up for me to look at.

"What color was the man's hair?" Rache asked.

The witness squinted at the detective as if this were a trick question.

"Hair? What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Please, sir, it is important."

The man snorted, said "Dark", turned, and walked away.

* * *

I went home. Rache went back to the station. He called me half an hour later and told me there was still nothing on the fingerprint ID off the little wrapped box they found at the top of the cliff -- but they were able to match it to another object. The one I provided in a little baggie.

Rache asked me who the fingerprint belonged to. I told him.

What ticks me off is that I have rent to pay, just like everyone else. I don't expect to work for free, but that's what happened. I could sue, I suppose, but that would cost more than it's worth considering the rate lawyers charge these days -- and there'd still be no guarantee I could collect even if I won.

Andrew Barile was rich, so he could have paid me. But he didn't. Why? Part of the reason was that he has dark hair. Another reason was because the fingerprints they pulled off the cup and saucer matched the one found on the wrapping of the gift. Still another reason was the inscription For Shari -- Always, BD stood for Big Daddy, not Bartholomew Daniels.

From the moment I asked Andrew Barile if he knew his daughter did porn and his answer was "Yeah, so?" I wondered about him as a suspect. A father would care. A dad would care.

Linking that with the impending National Enquirer exposé, I had a pretty good idea Andrew Barile was all actor, all the time. He would not let such a touchy family issue effect his career. He would make sure of it.

What he didn't know was that it was too late.

Maybe I will sue. Just on the principle.

"Side Effects"

© Eric Dalen / Sinister Duck Music. All rights reserved.