They all took a giant step back. Much better. Ever so slowly I turned the key. When it clicked open, there was a collective flinch. I glanced back nervously, milking the suspense, and then swung the door open.
I screamed and jumped back. The crowd scattered, running for cover.
Everyone but Stacy. She knew my sense of humor too well.
She just stood there, glowering. “Not funny, Gideon.”
“Maybe not ‘guffaw, laugh till you cry’ funny, but it was definitely ‘Ha Ha’ funny.”
“Four people have been shot, twenty-seven more injured in the panic, and you’re making jokes. Grow up, Gideon.”
“Don’t start with that Peter Pan complex shit again, Stacy. Even if it’s true.” As Hillary and the cops reassembled, I reached into the locker and brought out Jennifer, the poodle. She had a glitzy rhinestone collar around her neck, but no leash. The tiny dog flopped over the edges of my hands, lifeless.
“Is she dead?” Hillary asked.
“No, I feel a heartbeat. Probably drugged.”
Hillary gently petted the dog. “Poor baby ...”
“My poor baby ...” A grateful David Hunter said, hugging the dog to his chest. “What has he done to you?”
Stacy and I were poolside at Hunter’s Holmby Hills home. I’d sent Hillary back to the office.
I looked at the huge pool, manicured gardens, humongous mansion, collection of servants, and wondered what it must be like to live in this kind of luxury. Being rich has never been one of my ambitions. If so, I never would’ve become a cop. But when you see how the wealthy really live, you begin to realize that being rich is a pretty good deal. Whenever I leave Beverly Hills after spending time on someone’s rambling estate, I find myself stopping on the way home to buy a lottery ticket.
“Mallory,” Hunter said to his butler. “See if Dr. Crawford can come right over.”
“Vet?” I asked.
“Dean of the UCLA School of Veterinary Medicine.” The dog was awake now, but groggy. She tried to focus on Hunter as he nuzzled her. “Nothing but the best for my itty bitty baby ...”
Amazing. Even the rich and powerful are reduced to blithering idiots when talking to a fuzzy ball of fur.
Hunter turned his attention back to us. “I understand that people were hurt.”
“But no one was killed,” Stacy said.
“How’s your partner?”
“Shot twice. His vest stopped the first, but he took one in the shoulder. Luckily, it’s not serious. He’ll be back to work tomorrow.”
“Thank God.” Hunter’s voice hardened a bit. “What I don’t understand, Detective, is how he came to be shot at all. I thought we had an agreement.”
Stacy met his eyes, defiantly. “We did, but Detective Piccolo and I decided that we had too good a chance to apprehend the kidnapper so we—”
“Fucked everything up,” Hunter interrupted, taking the words out of my mouth.
Stacy’s gaze faltered for a nanosecond. She refocused and said, “I made a judgment call. I’ll stand by it.”
“You’ll do just that after I talk to the mayor.” He turned to me. “Did you know Wilson and her partner were at Magic Land?”
“Yes.”
“We gave him no choice,” Stacy added quickly. “I told Gideon that we were staking out the drop whether he liked it or not.”
I looked at Stacy, surprised. She’d always been honest, but I never expected her to stick up for me.
Hunter seemed impressed, too. “Good. I thought you were a man I could trust, Gideon. Thank you. And now that Jennifer’s back, I’d be happy to read your book.”
Read my book? My heart started doing the Samba as the fantasies swirled. He’d read the book. Buy the rights. Make the movie. Then a sequel. Before you know it, Rear Entry 6 is playing at theaters everywhere. I’d be rich. Famous. Better looking. I’d buy the mansion next door. Maybe even get a poodle.
“Well, that’s great. I’m mean, thank you very much, Mr. Hunter. Very much. I’ll have my agent send one right over.”
But Hunter’s attention was already back on Jennifer. “Let’s get the baby something to eat ...” He started across the patio toward his house, scratching behind the dog’s ears, then stopped. “Oh,” he said, “You can have this back.”
“What?” I asked.
“The dog collar.”
Stacy shook her head. “That’s not our dog collar.”
Hunter frowned. “It’s not mine, either. Oh, well ...” He started to take it off.
I looked at Stacy, trying to make sense of the collar. “If Hunter didn’t put it on Jennifer ...”
“And we didn’t put it on Jennifer ...”
“That means the kidnapper put it on Jennifer.”
“Why would the kidnapper put a collar on ...” It hit us both at the same instant.
The same instant Hunter unbuckled the collar and started to take it off.
I took a step toward Hunter and started to call out a warning.
Too late. The collar exploded.
Puppy Chow
Blackness. And a sound: BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. That’s all I heard. But I’d heard those BEEPS before. On TV. In movies. In Intensive Care, where my mother struggled with two bullets in her before the BEEP BEEP BEEP turned into a BEEEEEEEP and she died.
I was in a hospital. I slowly opened my eyes and found myself staring into the concerned but still beautiful face of Hillary.
“Did you touch the face of God?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you had your near-death experience. Did you see, like, a bright light, a long tunnel and God standing there in glowing robes?”
Near-death experience? What the hell was she talking about? My brain felt waterlogged. I tried to sit up but none of my muscles would respond. “Where am I?”
“Cedars Sinai. Did you know parking here costs four dollars and fifty cents for every fifteen minutes? Don’t you think that’s, like, way too much? I mean people feel bad enough coming to a hospital to visit sick family and friends. And then to charge them millions of dollars to park their cars is, like, adding insult to injury.”
“Why am I at Cedars?”
“You were blown up. Well, almost blown up.”
It started coming back. “The collar.”
“The paramedic said your heart actually stopped. That is so cool. I mean, you’re the first dead person I ever met. Well, almost dead person. There’s so much I want to ask you. Like, did your life pass before your eyes? Did you have an anxiety wash and feel like totally liberated? Did you want to stay in the white light when God said ‘Go back ... Go back ...’ Did God speak English?”
“God didn’t speak at all.”
“Oh, well, sure, God wouldn’t have to speak. He could just think it. Telepathy, right?”
“There was no tunnel. No light. No glowing robes.”
“No God?”
“No God.”
“Hmmm. He was probably too busy with Mr. Hunter.”
“How is he?”
“Dead.”
“And the dog?”
“Really dead.”
“Stacy?”
“Alive and complaining. She’s down the hall.”
“Badly hurt?”
“A few lacerations on her left arm and a bruised hip.”
“The explosion bruised her hip?”
“No, you did when you fell on her.”
“When did I fall on her?”
“When you were blown up. Almost blown up. The concussion, like, knocked you off your feet.”
“Do I still have ten fingers and toes?”
“And two arms and legs and one very cute nose.”
“I didn’t know you thought my nose was cute.”
“A lot of you is cute. And black and blue.”
“The concussion.”
“It mashed your skin into your bones, the doctor said. But aside from almost dying, you’re in pretty good shape.”
“If my heart stopped
who restarted it.”
“Stacy. She gave you CPR.”
“Shit. Now I owe her my life.”
“Would you rather be dead?”
“Can I get back to you on that?”
“You can go back to sleep. The doctor says you need rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Yes, you are. You’re exhausted.”
“I feel like I’m drugged up.”
“That, too.”
“Why?”
“So you won’t scream out in agony.” She stroked my forehead with her fingers. “Now sleep.”
I did.
“Wake up, asshole.”
I opened my eyes. Stacy stood there, Hillary hovered protectively behind her.
“They’re releasing me,” Stacy said, “so I thought I’d stop by and let you thank me for saving your life.”
“Thank you.”
“And tell you I did it instinctively. If I’d thought about it at all, I probably would’ve let you die.”
“I have no doubt.”
Then her expression softened. “How do you feel?”
“I killed my client. How do you think I feel?”
“Self pity. That’s a new character flaw.”
“Admit it, Stacy. If I had been smart enough to realize what the killer was up to, I could’ve saved Hunter’s life.”
“Hey, I was standing next to you. I didn’t think of it, either. But I’m not going to take responsibility for the murder. It’s not our fault this guy’s a fucking maniac.”
“Listen to her,” Hillary said from the doorway. “You can’t blame yourself.”
They were right. When a cop or a PI tries to take responsibility for all the evil in the world they usually end up eating their gun. I asked, “What’d forensics find out about the bomb?”
“The collar was made of C-4. Detonated when it was unbuckled.”
“So our killer’s had training in handling explosives.”
“By the way, the press has dubbed him, The Gravesnatcher.”
“Wait, they know about Christine’s kidnapping? I thought we’d agree to keep that a secret.”
“Somebody must’ve leaked it,” Stacy said.
“Shit, Alex Snyder’s going to kill me,” I said, remembering the look in the funeral director’s eyes when he pointed the .45 at my face. “Can we at least return Christine’s remains to him?”
“No, not yet.”
“I called him,” Hillary said. “Told him that Christine was in police custody and being cared for with the utmost respect. I gave him my guarantee that you would personally return her to him as soon as the case was closed.”
I looked at Hillary, impressed with her initiative. “Great, thanks.”
“By the way,” Stacy said. “The Chief is putting together a task force.”
“I want in.”
“You’ll be the guest of honor.”
I looked at Hillary. “When am I getting out of here?”
“Tomorrow morning, unless your heart stops again, you go into convulsions, or die.”
I smiled, looked at Stacy. “Florence Nightingale, she’s not.”
“But she cares about you. Which is nice, and also a complete mystery to me. Anyway, the task force meets at nine tomorrow.
Be there or be square.” Stacy started for the door, then stopped. “I should warn you that a few cops are worried about you being in on this. They think you’re working with the killer.”
“By a few cops, you mean your partner, don’t you? Piccolo.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s worried about the wrong thing.”
“Really. And what should he be worried about?”
“Who’s next.”
He’s Back
Lisa Montgomery was the most beautiful woman in the world. At least, that’s what the November issue of People magazine said. Roy had to agree; especially as he watched her undress through the bedroom window.
She was wearing a red dress. Single-strand pearl necklace. Fuck-me pumps. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching down to unfasten the shoes. Roy glimpsed her nipples through the top of her dress as she bent over. Hard and pink. She kicked the left foot free. Then the right. An ankle bracelet caught the candlelight, winked playfully.
Roy was in a good mood, even though things had gotten a little out of hand at Magic Land. No one was supposed to get shot. Rapunzel, for Christ’s sake. But, then again, nothing ever goes exactly according to plan.
Mayhem at Magic Land! Disaster at Magic Land! Merlin in Mourning! Each TV station had their own corny name for the afternoon’s adventure, but none of them mentioned Jennifer’s kidnapping. Or the two million dollar ransom. Or the David Hunter connection. Oh, they mentioned his murder. But they didn’t mention the PI and the cop who were also caught in the blast. And they didn’t tie David Hunter to Barry Winslow or Christine Cole.
Roy had been warned that the cops would try to keep a lid on it. He couldn’t let that happen. Getting the publicity was part of the plan. So he’d made a few anonymous phone calls, filling in a few blanks. And he knew someone else who would be making a few calls, too, unofficially confirming everything Roy said.
Roy’s attention returned to the bedroom window. Slowly, languidly, Lisa stood up and stretched, her arms behind her, her breasts pressing against the dress. Again, her nipples teased him, clearly visible beneath the flimsy fabric.
It was almost like she knew Roy was there. Like she was putting on a show.
Roy’s breath quickened. She was even more spectacular than he remembered. Her blond hair fell nonchalantly to her shoulders as she took a sip of champagne, her tongue darting out of her mouth to catch a recalcitrant drop. Oh, those sweet, sensuous lips!
Lisa glided into the bathroom, disappearing from view, although Roy could still see her shadow sharply etched into the wall. She reached back and unfastened the dress with long, delicate fingers. A shrug of her shoulders, and the dress dropped to the floor.
Roy heard a cough. Then a sneeze. Goddamn it! He spun around in his seat and glared at the guy sitting behind him, who ignored Roy and blew his nose.
This is why Roy hated movie theaters. Too many people eating popcorn, unwrapping candy, blowing their fucking noses.
Roy turned back to the screen. Lisa was stepping into a shower. The water cascaded over her perfect body, but again, all the nudity was implied. The director showed you her thighs, stomach, neck, calves but no clean shot of her tits.
Roy wasn’t surprised; after all, Lisa Montgomery had been crowned Hollywood’s latest Girl-Next-Door, and America’s Sweetheart could never do a nude scene.
But Roy had seen her nude. Touched those breasts, buried his face in her golden bush. Roy remembered what it was like to actually make love to her.
The taste of her lips.
The feel of those nipples between his fingers.
The way she gasped as he entered her.
Locked her legs around his waist.
Dug her nails into his back.
In fact, Roy had been the first to ever sleep with Lisa. He took her cherry his junior year, while rehearsing Georgia State’s fall production of Othello.
Lisa had been in love, but Roy had only been sport-fucking and dumped her after their one night together. She’d been broken-hearted, but hey, it wasn’t his fault when a chick was stupid enough to buy his line.
How was he to know she’d end up a big Hollywood star?
How was he to know he’d bump into her again?
How was he to know she’d finally get even, keep him from getting that movie?
The movie that could’ve made him a star.
Well, it was time to fuck her again.
A Tisket A Task Force
“We are dealing with one smart motherfucker.” Captain Mary Rocket looked out at the thirty cops crammed into the conference room and shook her head. “We’ve had four crime scenes: Westwood Memorial Cemetery, Winslow’s apartment, Hunter’s mansion, and Mag
ic Land. And so far, not one solid piece of evidence.”
As she paced around her office, Mary Rocket favored her right leg; her left was withered as the result of a birth defect. Although nearing sixty, she looked closer to forty. She wore her hair in an Afro and dressed in traditional African clothes that complemented her skin, so black it appeared almost purple. She might have passed for a U.N. ambassador from Zimbabwe.
“Not that the crime lab doesn’t have stuff to work on; there were tons of prints in Winslow’s condo. Thousands of prints in the Magic Land locker and bathrooms. They found so many prints in David Hunter’s mansion that his three full-time maids ought to vamoose their fat butts back to Guatemala. However, I got a funny feeling that not one of these prints belongs to our Gravesnatcher.”
Mary Rocket sizzled with energy. She worked fast. She talked fast. She limped fast. All that zipping around was infectious. Spending a few minutes with Mary Rocket was like having a jolt of adrenaline injected directly into the cerebral cortex.
“He must be wearing gloves. We’ve searched the neighboring environs of all four scenes and found no discarded surgical gloves.”
Occasionally, a crook’s stupid enough to take the gloves off and throw them away right outside a crime scene. Fingerprints can be found inside the gloves.
“We’ve collected fibers and trace evidence from all the scenes,” she went on, “cross-checked and catalogued them. But we’ve got no common denominators yet. The Gravesnatcher fired five times at Magic Land. We checked the five 9mm shell casings we picked up. Nada.”
Sometimes a perp loads his gun long before he plans to use it and often forgets to wear gloves. It’s easy to leave thumbprints when you’re shoving a bullet into a magazine or cylinder.
“You missed a crime scene,” I called out from the back of the room.
“What’s that, Gideon?”
“My car. The Gravesnatcher stole it when I tried to deliver the Cole ransom.”
“Why haven’t you brought it by the crime lab?”
“Because the Gravesnatcher wiped it down. Perfectly. Even got the spot most perps miss—the rear view mirror.”
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