Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  “For a few minutes. How’d you get my credit card number?”

  “Your office trash. You really ought to shred those credit card bills.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Where’s Lisa?”

  “Right here.”

  “Put her on.”

  Oh, shit. Stacy didn’t sound anything like Lisa. I turned to Stacy. “He wants to talk to you, Lisa,” I said pointedly.

  Stacy took the phone, holding it between us so we could both hear him. Closing her eyes for a moment—trying to recall Lisa’s voice, I imagined—she said, “Hello.”

  “Tell me you love me, bitch.”

  “I have great affection for you, sir,” Stacy said in a breathy Southern accent. “And I’ll have even more if you return my precious property.”

  “Beg me for it. Beg me, baby.”

  Stacy shot me a ‘man, is he a nut case’ look, then: “Please, oh, please, give it to me.”

  “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

  “That’s good. Remember that the next time I come see you.”

  I wanted to grab the phone, threaten to kill him if he came anywhere near Lisa, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had to make sure he took the backpack. So I throttled back my anger and said, “Okay, can we get on with this? We’ve got your money; let’s trade.”

  “Patience is a virtue, Gideon. You really ought to work on that.”

  “So now you’re a hyphenate: Kidnapper/Murderer/ Shrink.”

  “Hey, you’ve got this all wrong. I’m the good guy.”

  “Look, I’m not here to judge you. I’m just here to deliver a couple million bucks. Interested?”

  “Absolutely. Oh, and just so you know, after I collect this ransom, I’ll have all the money I need. You won’t be hearing from me again.”

  “Good, I guess.”

  “And I couldn’t have done it without you, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now leave the backpack under the bench. Then get back in your car and drive to the Greyhound Bus Station in Hollywood, on Cahuenga.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “The ticket agent’s holding an envelope with your name on it. Inside the envelope is a locker key. Locker number 345. And you better hurry. There’s only enough ice in the cooler for a couple of hours.” He hung up.

  “That means he’s here somewhere,” Stacy said, looking around. “If he wanted us to leave the backpack under the bench, he must be close by.”

  “Forget about it, Stace. We want him to get the backpack, remember. Let’s not do anything to scare him off.” I slid the ransom under the bench. “We better hurry. It could take almost an hour to get to Hollywood this time of the day.”

  We half-walked, half-ran toward the exit. “Let me ask you this,” Stacy said. “If Lisa bailed on us, why do we give a shit about her sperm?”

  “She left us the two million bucks. I figure getting it back is the least we can do.”

  When we reached the edge of the parking lot Stacy suddenly stopped. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot my purse. I put it down next to the bench, by the bushes. I’ve got to go back.” As she turned around she caught a heel and almost fell. “God damn shoes,” she muttered.

  “Wait,” I said. “Tell you what, I’ll go back.” I handed her the car keys. “You bring up the car.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Gideon,” she said, kissing my cheek. “I’ll meet you right here.” She hobbled into the parking lot and I jogged back toward the bench.

  It probably only took me four or five minutes to get there, but when I got to the bench, the backpack was gone. The Gravesnatcher had been close by. I did a quick 360, but didn’t see anyone lugging the backpack. I did see Stacy’s purse, though, right where she said she left it—next to the bench, almost hidden by the bushes. I picked it up and started back toward the parking lot.

  That’s when I heard the explosion. Not the small BOOM setting off the letter bomb would have made, but a loud, ear-rattling BOOM, like a car bomb makes. Then I saw the plume of black smoke coming from the direction of the parking lot.

  I sprinted to the exit, dodging and weaving through the swarm of people. I hurtled into the parking lot. Car alarms blared. Car windows were shattered. I raced toward the smoke and flames that I knew had to be my car.

  And it was. A huge explosion had ripped through the Taurus leaving it a twisted, molten mess. The flames were so hot, so fierce that I couldn’t get closer than fifty feet. But inside the car I could see the burnt remains of Stacy.

  And I stood there, helpless, watching her funeral pyre.

  Midnight In The Garden

  Of Anguish And Guilt

  It took only six minutes for the fire department to arrive. But for those six minutes the voracious flames fed on every molecule of combustible material—leather, fabric, plastic, gasoline, skin and bone. The car cried out in agony, the metal groaning as the superheated flames twisted the chassis into a fetal position.

  The firefighters poured water on the car from two pumpers. The fire resisted, rearing up like a primordial beast, fighting back stubbornly, unwilling to give up its death grip on the Ford. Finally the black roiling cloud of smoke turned to white, the first sign of a fire’s surrender. The car cried out again, as the cooling began and the metal tried unsuccessfully to regain its original shape.

  It was finally safe enough to get close to the car. I splashed through the puddles of water to look in the driver’s side window.

  There was almost nothing left of Stacy. Her body had melted into and become part of the charred seat. As I turned away horrified, I saw one of her scorched stiletto pumps lying next to the car.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Try.”

  “The Gravesnatcher knew you’d have the Bowl staked out, Captain. He moved the drop to the zoo, made me swear not to tell you.”

  Mary Rocket and I stood in the middle of the parking lot turned crime scene. The coroner’s assistants had removed what they could of Stacy’s corpse, putting no more than fifty pounds of remains in a body bag. Hector Ruiz and his crime scene technicians were now at work. They’d do a preliminary investigation here, then move the car to a city garage for a more detailed analysis.

  “That’s why you ditched your tail.”

  “I figured my best shot at catching the Gravesnatcher was to make sure he’d show up. He wouldn’t have if I had a parade of cops following me into the parking lot.”

  “Of course, then he wouldn’t have had a chance to plant a bomb in your car and Stacy would still be alive.”

  “Good, just what I need, more guilt.”

  “Get used to it, Gideon. You’ll probably be crucified for this.”

  “I know.”

  “And just what, may I ask, was your great plan to catch him without backup?”

  My plan was actually still in effect. Hell, our maniac might already be on his knees screaming in agony, his mangled fingers stuck to a ceiling somewhere. But should I tell the Captain? There’s an old saying when dealing with the police: When in doubt, say nothing. So I said, “It doesn’t matter what my plan was anymore.” Then something occurred to me. “The bus station! The Gravesnatcher left the sperm at Greyhound Station in Hollywood.”

  “Another locker?”

  I nodded. “Ticket agent’s holding an envelope in my name with a key in it. And since the last locker we opened had a dog collar made of C-4 in it, I’ll bet the cyrovial’s not the only thing he left us.”

  “I’ll send the bomb squad to check it out.”

  Suddenly a tortured voice screamed out: “Why didn’t someone tell me? Why didn’t someone tell me Stacy was decoying Lisa Montgomery?” I turned to find an enraged Piccolo charging through the police tape. He bulled past a couple of uniforms, grabbed Mary Rocket’s arm. �
��I’m her partner! Someone should have told me!” He turned to me.

  “This is all your fault. You killed her! You killed her, you son of a bitch!” He launched himself at me, hitting me full in the chest, slamming me to the wet ground. “Murderer!” he screamed, his fists smashing into my face, landing punch after punch as I did nothing to protect myself.

  I looked into his wild eyes, saw my blood smeared on his knuckles, and knew that I deserved this beating. Two more punches landed, dazing me, before two cops grabbed him under the arms and pulled him off. But Piccolo wasn’t finished. In desperation he gave a mighty kick, catching me in the temple, knocking me out.

  I spent the rest of the day in agony. The outside of my head hurt from the beating, the inside ached from grief. Once the paramedics pulled me out of my all too brief respite from with consciousness, they put a butterfly stitch on the cut over my left eye, rubbed antiseptic over my split lip and told me to see my dentist about a couple of loose molars. Mary Rocket decided I’d suffered enough for one day and told me to come see her for a debriefing in the morning.

  A black and white dropped me at the office. I walked in, ignored the ringing phone—though I did notice the answering machine was stuck on fifty-three again—and pulled the bottle of Tanqueray gin out of my desk drawer.

  By nightfall, sitting in my darkened office, I was drunk enough to feel real sorry for myself. I had blamed myself for my parents’ murder. They’d asked me to work in the store that morning and I’d talked my way out of it. After I found out they’d been killed I did a major Woulda Shoulda Coulda. Everyone told me I was nuts to blame myself. I had survivor’s guilt, or some such shit. If I’d been in the shop the only difference would have been that I’d have been killed, too, they said. They kept telling me it wasn’t my fault, and finally, I believed them.

  Well, Stacy’s death was my fault. I was the one who had decided to lie to Mary Rocket about the drop location. I was the one who’d talked Stacy into coming to the zoo. I was the one who’d told her to get the car. I was the one stupid enough not to realize the Gravesnatcher’s plan. In fact, he’d all but told me when he said this would be the last ransom. That was why he’d wanted Lisa there. He was planning to get his money and kill us both with the car bomb.

  Now knee deep in melancholy, I took another swig of the sweet sauce. What hurt the most was, I’d finally realized how much I still loved Stacy. So what happens? She’s taken from me.

  Irony. That most awful of words. God is, when all is said and done, nothing but a sadistic practical joker.

  I was about to get up and put a Sinatra CD on the stereo when I heard the front door of the office open, and a voice call out, “Gideon?” Hillary’s voice. “Gideon?”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a sweeter sound than Hillary’s voice at that moment.

  “Gideon, are you here?”

  I opened my office door. Hillary stood in the middle of the reception room. “I heard about Stacy on the news. I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to call you, here, at your apartment. I left message after message you didn’t call back. I know we’re supposed to be in the middle of a huge feud, but under the circumstances ...”

  She ran across the room into my arms. I hugged her, hard. She was the first person to show me any real sympathy. The only one left in the world who offered unconditional love. Holding her close, I realized how much I needed it. The hug ended, and Hillary pulled back, studying me in the sketchy lighting. Wincing, she reached up to caress my pulped face. “What happened? Were you hurt in the explosion?”

  “Yeah. The emotional detonation of a grieving boyfriend.”

  “Piccolo.”

  “I did nothing to defend myself. Let him wail away, hoping he’d kill me.”

  “Don’t even talk like that. I don’t want to sound cynical or anything, but, like, you and Stacy weren’t exactly Romeo and Juliet. I mean, nobody should die like that, and I’m sure deep down in that shriveled heart of yours there’s probably an itty bitty pilot light of affection, but ...” She trailed off as she finally whiffed the despair in the air. “Or I’m completely off base and you had a real heart-on for Stacy.”

  “Door number two.”

  “I am such a jerk. Okay, I’m sorry, Gideon. I really am. But suicidal obsession doesn’t look good on you and I’m not going to allow you wallow in this cesspool of misery. I’ll make sure we schedule plenty of time for you to grieve, but first things first. We’ve got a murdering SOB to catch, and we can’t do that emptying bottles of vodka and boxes of Kleenex.”

  “With any luck he’s already maimed or dead. Remember my much debated letter bomb?”

  “I sure do.” Hillary marched back to the front door of the office and threw it open. “Ta da!” She waved her arms like Vanna White, indicating a lump on the floor just outside my office door.

  “What is it?”

  “You tell me.”

  Knowing I wasn’t going to like this, I crossed to the threshold. I was right. The lump was the backpack I’d left at the zoo. The zipper was still zipped. The back of the canvas bag had been slashed open. The money was gone, and the letter bomb was still inside, still rigged to the zipper.

  “Goddamn it,” I said. “How’d he know?”

  “Maybe he’s got one of those bomb-sniffing dogs or an X-ray machine. Or maybe he’s just smarter than the average bear. Point is, he’s still out there, unmolested, and you are, like, in here, your face looking like something out of a horror movie.”

  I picked up the backpack, hurled it into the office. “Goddamn it!”

  “That’s not very safe, is it?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Is there a way to defuse the thing?”

  “Yeah.” I reached through the gash in the canvas, disconnected the battery.

  “Thank you. So, what’s next?”

  It was a little tough thinking clearly through the alcohol and the anger, but I gave it a shot. “By leaving the backpack here he was giving me a message.”

  “Something like, and I’m just guessing here: screw you.”

  My eyes went to the blinking 53 on the answering machine. “So maybe he left something a little more specific.” I hit the play button. There was a high-speed whir as the machine rewound; then the first message started to play. Hillary’s voice: “Gideon, it’s Hillary. I just heard what happened. I’m sorry, for everything. Call me.” BEEP.

  Unknown voice: “Mr. Kincaid, this is Foster Stern, CBS News—” I hit fast forward until I heard the BEEP.

  Elliot’s voice: “Talk about your plot twists! Beautiful woman struck down in the prime of life. Bereaved ex-husband left to pick up the pieces. Shakespeare, eat your heart out. Ring my bell.” BEEP.

  Elliot’s voice: “P.S., if you can live through this, you’ll be up there with Grisham and Lee Child. For God’s sake, be careful!” BEEP.

  Unknown voice: “Mr. Kincaid, I’m calling for Bill O’Reilly at FOX News—” Fast forward, BEEP.

  Hillary’s voice: “Me again. Are you there ...? Pick up, please ... Gideon ...?” BEEP.

  Joan Hagler’s voice: “Well, are you happy now? The TV said an undercover cop was burnt to a crisp this afternoon. Undercover, as in dressed up like Lisa? As in, if Lisa had been with you, she’d be dead now?! I’m never wrong about people, and I knew you were a dangerous psychopath the minute I laid eyes on you.” BEEP.

  Alex Snyder’s voice: “Mr. Kincaid, this is Alex Snyder from the Westwood Mortuary. Sorry to hear about your ex-wife. If there is anything I can do, professionally speaking—I mean, casket, plot, you know—please don’t hesitate to call. Oh, and we are very anxious for the safe return of Christine’s remains. Very anxious. Please encourage the police department to return her as soon as possible.” BEEP.

  The Gravesnatcher’s voice: “Nice try, PI. Smart. But I’ve got a 143 IQ, and that makes me smarter. Sorry about the lady cop. Ex-wife, huh? Don’t say I never did anything for you. Of course, that means Lisa’s still alive. You’re still alive. Guess I
’m not done, after all.” BEEP.

  We listened to the rest of the messages, just in case he’d called back. There were lots of reporters, vultures from the all the tabloids, two more panicked calls from Hillary, a few more women applying for the secretary job, a bunch of potential clients who’d heard about me on TV and wanted to hire the suddenly famous Gideon Kincaid, and a call from Mary Rocket. I started dialing. Even though it was nine-fifteen, I figured she might still be at work.

  “Captain Rocket’s office.”

  “Gideon Kincaid returning her call.”

  I was put on hold for a few moments, then: “Nothing but spermatozoa.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “In the locker,” Mary Rocket said. “Just eight cryovials of sperm. No bomb, which is the good news. No fingerprints, other than the ticket agent’s, or any other trace evidence, which is the bad news.”

  “What about the ticket agent? Could he describe whoever left the envelope?”

  “He was a she, Larisa Baumgartner, and no, she never saw him. She turned around to answer a phone, and when she turned back the envelope was sitting there, with ‘Hold for Gideon Kincaid,’ written on the flap. By the way, the D.A. is thinking about filing obstruction charges against you.”

  “What do you think about that?”

  “I told him to wait and see if the Gravesnatcher kills you first.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “I wasn’t doing you a favor, Gideon. I was serious. This Jason Tucker is smarter than I remember. More dangerous than I remember. More ruthless than I remember. And we don’t have any idea where the hell he is. Watch your back.”

  “I will.” She hung up and I starting thinking. Jason Tucker was awful fucking smart. I mean, he’d tricked me with the collar, had been clever with the hidden cell phones, had done that number with my credit card, planted a bomb in my car, figured out I’d planted a letter bomb. How? “Hillary, you know where my file on Jason Tucker is?”

  “Sure, I pulled it as soon as I heard he’d escaped from prison.”

  She dug through a pile on her desk and handed me a file. On the inside cover was a copy of his mug shot, supplied by the LAPD. I looked into those arrogant, unapologetic gray eyes, observed the lean, hard face and the dishwater blond ponytail.