by Brad Hart
Frank hadn’t told anyone about that. He had been negligent in his line of duty, and he couldn’t forgive himself for that. Although he had never made that mistake again, he realized he could be making it right then. Instead of wallowing in his own misery like he had done for the last fifteen years, he embraced the negative, sick feelings. He used them as motivation. He started his car and pulled out of the lot, and then he began to drive fast.
Dead in LA, and dead in San Feliz. The two crimes must be unrelated. There couldn’t possibly be…
Two killers working as one.
Chief Frank Walker slammed his foot hard on the gas and flew down the PCH.
What he found when he got there didn’t do anything to make his stomach feel at ease. In fact, it made him come close to doubling over on the side of the road, but he refrained. He held it in and perked himself upright and stood tall and tried to look tough and strong.
He was a shell of a man beneath that rough exterior, though, and people could sense it. They talked. He didn’t bring hope or a feeling of protection to his small community, not by any means. It made him feel pathetic inside.
“Good God, why?” He said as he stared at the carnage on the side of the road.
Cars whizzed past on the freeway, the drivers and passengers oblivious to the mayhem that they were passing. Frank Walker was jealous of them. He wished more than anything that he could have that. He wished he’d never dreamed of becoming a cop when he’d been a kid.
If he could have that, it would fix it all – his marriage, his fatherhood, all of it. He could have just become an accountant or a small business owner. Anything would have been easier on the mind than this.
“How many wounds?” He asked.
“He was knifed up pretty bad, Chief,” a rookie said. He looked worse off than Frank, like he was about to piss his pants. “Twelve deep stabs to the chest and stomach. I hope the poor guy died fast and didn’t have to bleed out.”
Frank looked to his left where he saw other officers questioning a set of different victims. There were two cars and a truck pulled off on the shoulder up ahead. He guessed they’d stopped up ahead when they saw it happen and saw the guy drive off.
He walked to them and listened in on the conversation.
“Yeah, the guy was wearing a mask. Black, or dark colored. We were driving by and just saw it happening up ahead, so we slowed down. He was just like stabbing him, over and over.”
Frank turned around and faced the cars, feeling the brisk air waft across his face as they drove past him at sixty, seventy miles per hour. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the letter E in his contacts, and then he pulled up Logan Stone’s phone number and pressed call.
Chapter Ten
Logan got the news about the body in San Feliz as he and Officer Walsh were making their way through the twists and turns of Sunset Boulevard in Bel Air. With the current lack of traffic, their estimated time of arrival in Santa Monica was around twenty minutes. Logan’s phone rang, and he pressed it to his ear.
“Logan,” he paused. “What? No, hold on, let me pull off. That can’t be right.”
He turned onto a side street and held the phone tight to his ear.
Walsh was staring at him. She looked confused. “What is it?” She said. “Logan, what happened?”
“Hold on,” he said. “It’s a mistake.”
Walker spoke into the other line. He sounded to Logan like he’d died on the inside. Logan could sympathize with that feeling and felt it a little bit himself even.
“Just like I said. It doesn’t make sense. Multiple people saw the same thing, and we got calls from others that were too scared to stop. Knifing victim, multiple stab wounds in his chest and stomach. It’s a big blade, matches the other victims’ wounds – the girl with the crashed car who was down in the ditch, and I think probably the body that had been in the ocean for a few days. This is the same guy.”
“But he just killed a girl here in Santa Monica.”
“Well, he just killed a guy in San Feliz, Logan. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“There’s more than one killer,” Logan said.
“Both of them are dressed up wearing masks?”
“That’s all I can think of,” Logan said.
“I’ll call you when we have more info.”
Logan hung up and sat there for a moment. Walsh kept talking but he wasn’t listening. He reversed out of the side street and put the car back into drive. He turned back onto Sunset and continued west.
“Come on, tell me. Someone else is dead? There’s more than one killer? What the hell is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said morosely, pressing harder on the gas until they were flying at a dangerous speed. He weaved in and out of the lanes, passing cars like a maniac and maneuvering through the heavy turns with the precision of a possessed robot. “Someone else is dead in San Feliz, freshly killed. The knife matches. It’s the same blade. How is that possible?”
“There’s more than one then. I mean, there has to be, right? He just killed a girl in Santa Monica!”
Logan’s rage boiled deep inside. To Walsh, he looked like he was about to snap. He needed a drink badly, just a sip to take off the edge. He drove on with his hands gripped so tight to the wheel that it looked like his knuckles were about to burst through the skin.
“Shit!” He howled suddenly, slamming his right hand against the wheel and making it emit a series of loud honks. The car swerved, and Walsh screamed as Logan, red-faced, beat repeatedly on the steering wheel and swerved onto the side of the road before slamming the brake. He wanted to shove his elbow through the glass. He wanted to beat his head against the wheel and scream until his throat bled.
“Calm down or you’ll crash the car. Man, I don’t want to die today.”
“When we catch this guy, I’m going to kill him,” Logan said. “I’m going to kill him in cold blood like he’s killed all these people.”
His hands were shaking, and he’d broken out in a dripping sweat. Walsh said nothing. Logan nodded his head and pulled back into the lane, driving fast down Sunset.
“Yeah,” he continued. “It’s going to feel good for me.”
Twenty-five minutes later and they’d arrived on Ocean Avenue. Logan parked, fed the meter, and walked toward the crime scene. He’d calmed down just enough to look presentable, but he was still seething inside. There were cops everywhere, and they hassled him about not being allowed to see anything. He didn’t need to see, anyway. He already knew it would just be another dead body – a dead body who wouldn’t be able to answer any questions.
What he did was look around the surrounding area instead. He walked up and down the narrow bluff side park that overlooked the Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica Beach. He paid close attention to the police. Then he watched them bag the body and haul it up onto a stretcher.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something on the sidewalk. He walked to it and stared down at it before stooping and picking it up in his hands. It was Michael Jones’s business card, identical to the one he’d seen in the Jones household when he met the man.
Logan stared blankly at the card and then walked over to some of the cops.
“Guys, you might want to see this,” he said, flashing the card out.
The cops stared at the scribbled note on the sidewalk. “The hell does that have to do with anything?” One of them asked.
“He’s a private dick. He’s wasting our time,” said another.
“Come on, Walsh,” Logan said, grumbling and pulling her from the crowd of police.
He glanced back as they made their way to the car. The cops were taking photographs and speaking on their radios. Logan got back in the driver’s side and started up the car. Walsh sat down next to him.
“It’s Michael Jones’s card,” she said.
Logan pulled out and drove north down Ocean Avenue. “Yes.”
“Why the hell is it at a crime scene? You think Jones is involved?�
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“Yes, but I highly doubt he’s the killer.”
“Then someone who’s associated with him could be.”
“Or it could be a coincidence. Maybe Michael Jones likes to come to Ocean Avenue here in Santa Monica for a jog some mornings. Maybe he was running, and his business card flew right out of his pocket and he didn’t notice.”
“Or maybe it fell out of the pocket of the guy who killed this girl.”
“I think that’s more likely, but lately I’ve been thinking real negative so maybe my view is skewed.”
“I’m thinking the same as you, though. What are the odds that Jones came here for a morning jog? He doesn’t live close at all. Most people who jog here probably live nearby – Santa Monica itself, or Venice, or Pacific Palisades. Jones isn’t going to come all the way here from Calabasas for a morning jog, especially when his daughter is missing.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why he came here for an early morning jog. Maybe he needed to clear his head with a long drive and a run by the sea.”
“I don’t like it, and I don’t buy it.”
Logan paused. “Neither do I.”
“A little bit?”
“No, not at all.”
“So that narrows it down to something else. The killer left it there as a clue or it fell from his pocket.”
“Or it fell from anyone’s pocket. Jones is decently well known. Didn’t have to be the killer.”
“But it’s too coincidental. He’s not famous. Not everyone in LA is carrying Michael Jones’s business card. He’s not Van Gogh giving out discounted art lessons. It’s not the biggest hit in town. He’s a virtual nobody. Sure, he might make good money from his art, or decent money – but he’s not rolling in the dough, and he’s by no means a household name.”
“I like your way of thinking,” Logan said, steering the car down a narrow neighborhood street that led back toward Sunset Boulevard.
“Where to?” She asked.
“We’re going back to Michael Jones’s house.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he’s involved.”
Forty minutes later Logan and Walsh had pulled in front of Michael Jones’s house. He stepped out casually and took a breath. If Jones was involved, then that really changed things, and it could get messy and dangerous if Logan confronted him. Especially when he considered Jones’s temper tantrum earlier in the morning.
“Let’s go question him.”
“Do you have a plan?” Walsh asked.
“Just ask some questions. Come on.”
Logan knocked on the door, but it didn’t open. He waited a few minutes and knocked again. “Car’s here… So, where is he?” Walsh asked.
“Let’s check the back.”
They walked slowly around the long house until they reached the corner. Logan peeked around. He felt like something was wrong. Then he saw the back-door swaying gently in the breeze. He nodded at Walsh.
They walked to the door and Logan looked inside. The house sounded quiet, nothing going on inside. Either that or Michael Jones was reading, sleeping, or just sitting and doing nothing. But if the latter were the case, then why hadn’t he opened the door after hearing the knocking? Or if he’d been reading a book, then why not put it down and come to see who was there?
Maybe he was deep in sleep. The guy must have been exhausted, Logan knew that. Logan also knew the guy was possibly involved in the abduction of his daughter and murder of other women… But he didn’t want to jump the gun and make any wild accusations.
“I’m going inside,” he said, drawing his gun.
Walsh followed Logan into the house. They teach had their guns out. Something wasn’t right. On the contrary, something was very bad. Logan could smell it quite literally through his flared nostrils. “What is that?” He asked, waving a hand over his nose.
“Smells like gasoline and smoke…”
“Wait…”
“You’re going to die!” A blood-curdling voice screeched from somewhere in the house; a voice that did not sound like Michael.
“Michael?” He called, and then whispered to Walsh. “Don’t move. Don’t go any further.”
The smell was strong. Logan could smell it everywhere now, penetrating his nostrils and soaking into his brain. Someone had doused the entire house in gasoline. Logan took a step forward and saw an empty barrel on the floor. He took another step and saw another dozen or so next to it. They were all empty.
The ground was wet beneath his soles. He took a step back and looked at Walsh briefly. “We need to get out of this house.”
“Leave before he kills you! Please!” The voice cried.
“Get out of the house!” Logan bellowed, and did a quick sprint toward Walsh, tackling her so hard that as his body crashed into hers it sent the two of them flying out of the open back door. They landed with a thud on the dry dirt and Logan quickly pulled her to her feet and ran with her as they sprinted further into the backyard while the house went up in flames.
“He’s burning it down,” she said.
Smoke filled the air as the fire spread. Soon enough the entire house was engulfed in a bright stinking flame. The sound of an engine revving and tires screeching filled their ears. Logan ran to the front of the house only to see the tail end of Michael Jones’s Porsche barreling down the quiet neighborhood street.
The two of them wordlessly jumped into their own vehicle and Logan pulled out and drove as fast as the engine would let him. “Damn, I should have rented a sports car,” he groaned and took a right turn so sharp that it could have cut glass. The little Toyota’s engine whined as Logan hauled down the street going well over the speed limit.
“Slow down!” Walsh screamed.
“Not going to happen,” Logan said, eyes blazing as he took a left even sharper than the right.
They were going down a long, steep hill that headed straight for Ventura Boulevard. At the bottom of the hill was what looked like a roadblock. Construction ahead, perhaps. Logan thumbed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, squinting his eyes through the sunlight and trying to see what was in the distance.
He could see a Porsche, and that was all that mattered to him. It was a Porsche that had Michael Jones behind the wheel.
“He’s there,” Logan said. “Son of a bitch is right there.”
“They got him stopped while they let the oncoming traffic go. They’re taking turns; the construction guys are guiding traffic.”
“I love Los Angeles traffic,” Logan said without a hint of irony, and he sped toward Michael Jones’s sports car which glittered like diamonds in the sunlight.
He careened toward the vehicle and then stopped right behind it and jumped out. He grabbed his gun but not before Michael Jones began firing rounds out of the driver’s side window. Logan fell to his stomach and rolled against the rear left tire. He hadn’t been expecting gunfire, not by any means, and especially not from meek little Michael Jones.
Walsh was already out of the vehicle and unloading into the back window of Jones’s car. Jones had ducked down and was hiding below his steering wheel, blindly unloading his gun by firing aimlessly in their direction. The construction workers had all scrambled at the noise of gunfire and vanished.
It was just the three of them then, lonely at the construction site at the end of the sleepy road in Calabasas. Just the three of them exchanging bullets. Logan pulled himself out from the car just enough to start firing his pistol into the driver’s side door.
“Stop! Stop!” A voice screamed, and then a gun was thrown out the window moments later by a bloody, thin hand that dangled there.
Logan stood up fast and hovered over the window with his gun pointed at the bleeding mess that was Michael Jones. “They really made me do it.” He said, tears streaming from his face.
“Don’t move, Jones,” Logan said.
Walsh had him covered on the other side of the car. Logan’s arms were shaking. His heart was beating fast.
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��I’m sorry for what comes next,” Michael said thoughtfully. “I hope someone will understand…” His lips twisted up into a grimace. His hand moved slowly.
“I said don’t move, prick.”
“I promise, I don’t have any more guns. I just need to open the trunk.”
His finger had already been touching it before Logan put the gun on him, so there was no time to stop him. He pressed it quickly, and then the hood rose and out popped an armored man holding a machine gun with both hands. He was smiling like he’d been waiting for this moment. He swiveled around as Logan mouthed the word ‘down’ in what felt like slow motion.
Walsh pulled the trigger, but the man was covered in armor from neck to foot. His face was bare and an open target, but Walsh didn’t have the time to aim high enough. He blasted the automatic gunfire onto the ground and the bullets danced and ricocheted around her feet.
The man spun back around to Logan and held the gun in place. Then he spoke to Walsh in a quick and bone chilling voice. “If you move, pig, then the private dick gets it.”
He stared at Walsh out of one eye while he kept the gun aimed at Logan’s chest. If he pulled the trigger, then Logan would be blasted backward off his feet across the street in some kind of a sick jolting death dance. “Your choice. The detective gets a dozen or more holes in his chest or you be a good girl now, and… Everyone lives.” His smile widened. He chuckled softly. There were sirens in the distance coming fast, but they didn’t seem to bother him.
Logan knew if he could delay things, then the cops would get there. But there wasn’t going to be any delaying things. This man was quick to get to business. “Get over here, both of you, and get in the trunk beside me. Do it or I’ll blow his damn head apart. Both of you, drop your guns slowly onto the ground. I’ll kill you both real quick if you don’t do what I say.”