by Jacob Stone
“I don’t know. But it will help to find out whether Hardacher is having an affair, so I’ll keep watching him for now and text you the photos. How about pulling some strings with Annie or whoever else owes you a favor inside the LAPD and find out from organized crime whether this guy’s known as a contract killer? Also, ask if our friends at the LAPD could look up his plate and get me a name and address?”
“Will do.”
Lemmon used the camera’s built-in Wi-Fi to transfer the photos to his phone and then sent them to Morris. With that taken care of, he picked up a cup of coffee he had bought an hour earlier, worked off the lid, and made a face when he realized it was now lukewarm. What the hell. Lukewarm coffee was better than nothing. He was still drinking it when a late-model Prius pulled into the motel parking lot. Lemmon took several photos of the driver after she got out of the car. A skinny woman in her thirties with frizzy red hair. He only saw her through the telephoto lens in profile and from behind, but he thought she looked pretty. She was also dressed nicely, like she worked in a bank. If Polk was around, Lemmon would’ve offered the lummox ten-to-one odds the woman wasn’t a prostitute and knowing Polk, he would’ve taken the bet.
He watched as she knocked on the motel-room door and took more photos when Hardacher greeted her with a passionate embrace and kiss. This wasn’t a casual hookup. The two of them knew each other and were involved in a relationship.
After Hardacher and the woman disappeared into the motel room, Lemmon took a two-foot long lockout tool that he kept in his car and headed across the street. When he started on the force, he could slide a lockout tool—or as it was better known, a slim jim—through the driver’s side window and get into any locked car in seconds. These days, most of the luxury cars were built to be impenetrable. But he could still get into a Prius with one, and it took him all of six seconds to unlock the passenger door. He found the registration in the glove compartment, and used his phone to snap a photo of it. He now had the girlfriend’s name and address: Lauren Estleman, and she had a Sherman Oaks address.
Lemmon walked back to his car and called Morris to inform him that the client was right about her husband having an affair. “I’ve got photos, a name, and an address, but I’m worried about the dude who showed up earlier.”
“I’ve already talked with Annie,” Morris said. “She’s got a request in to pull the registration for the license plate. Organized crime promised to call me back about whether the guy in your photos is known to them.”
“Good. I know you want me on your serial killer investigation, but I need to stay on this for now. I’m going to tell the client my suspicions and see if she wants me to keep working on this until we know she’s safe.”
“That sounds like the right play. Let me know what she says.”
Lemmon promised him he’d do exactly that. He next called Wendy Hardacher and arranged to meet her at a coffee shop near where she worked. She tried to get him to tell her over the phone what he found out, but this needed to be done in person. As he drove to their rendezvous point in Glendale, he couldn’t help feeling somewhat envious of Morris. He had heard Annie in the background when he had Morris on the phone. So she was teamed up with him. What Lemmon would’ve given to change places with his boss right then, not that it would’ve done him a whit of good. Any feelings he had for Annie would need to stay bottled up and remain unrequited.
Chapter 36
Alex Frey sat in his hospital bed, his face swollen and bruised, his skin an unhealthy grayish pallor. The TV was off and when Morris, Walsh, and Parker entered the room, Frey was staring unblinkingly at the opposite wall and didn’t acknowledge them, not even after Morris and Walsh pulled chairs up to his bed, or when Parker licked his hand. According to Frey’s doctor, Frey was still suffering from concussion symptoms, but they wanted him to remain in the hospital under observation because of signs of severe depression.
During his years as an LAPD homicide detective, Morris learned early on that he needed to wall himself off from becoming emotionally involved with any of the victims; that otherwise he’d lose objectivity and it would adversely affect the investigation. This wall was breached almost the moment he saw Frey. Anger welled up within him as he thought about what the killer had done to this man and his fiancée. As he struggled to get his emotions under control, Frey turned to him and told him that his dog was getting his hand wet.
“Sorry about that.” Morris pulled Parker back and introduced himself. Frey stared at him blankly before turning to look at Walsh. A glimmer of recognition showed in his eyes.
“I remember you.” Frey’s voice sounded heavy, stilted. He turned back to Morris. “I’m not sure I minded it. In fact, it might’ve actually felt comforting in a way to feel something other than grief. If you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d like to pet your dog.”
“Sure thing. His name’s Parker.”
Morris let the bull terrier edge forward, and Frey’s hand found the top of Parker’s head.
“His fur is very bristly,” he remarked. “Like a hairbrush.”
Morris said, “We’re doing everything we can to find the person who hurt you and Ms. Kincade, but I need to ask you some questions, if you’re up to it.”
Frey’s expression remained unchanged as he continued to lightly pet Parker. He said, “I don’t know if there’s anything more I can tell that I haven’t told Detective Walsh, but I’ll try.”
“Was it you or Ms. Kincade who buzzed in the pizza-delivery guy?”
“You mean the piece of human garbage who attacked us and murdered Jill?”
“Yes.”
Frey’s mouth weakened. “I did.”
Morris tried not to sound accusatory as he asked him why.
“Because he said he was from Roma’s Pizza. That was Jill’s and my favorite pizza place.”
“But you didn’t order a pizza. Why buzz him in?”
“He said that my brother Todd bought the pizza for us.” Frey turned to look at Walsh. “I didn’t tell you that before, did I? I wonder why I didn’t remember that then?”
Walsh said, “It’s understandable, given the circumstances.” Her tone, though, showed she wasn’t happy with herself for not ferreting that out earlier.
“It wasn’t just that he knew about Roma’s Pizza and my brother Todd, but he told us he brought a fig jam and prosciutto pie,” Frey said. “He knew what our favorite pizza was.”
Morris had a good idea why that was: The killer was at the engagement party. He asked Frey if he remembered seeing anyone he didn’t know at the party. In response, Frey began sobbing. Parker let out a soft whimper and jumped up so that his front paws rested on the bed, and he pushed his nose toward Frey’s face so he could lick him. Morris started to pull Parker back, but Frey, through his sobbing, asked him not to. After several minutes, Frey’s sobbing came to a haltering stop and he gave Morris a look of pure, abject misery. Morris lifted Parker off the bed.
“I expected to live with Jill my whole life,” he said, as if in a daze. “I could’ve saved her and I didn’t even try.”
“He put you in an impossible situation,” Morris said. “You couldn’t have done anything to help Jill.”
More tears welled up in Frey’s eyes. He gave Morris a beseeching look. “I could’ve had him cut me free. I could’ve tried fighting him. That’s what you would’ve done.”
“I would’ve done exactly what you did,” Morris said. “I wouldn’t want that person hurting my wife any worse than he was already doing, and I’d want to hold out hope that someone would come by to stop him.”
Walsh placed a hand on Frey’s shoulder. “This psycho killed another woman last night,” she said. “It was the same circumstances as what happened with you and Jill. This time her husband had the psycho cut him free and tried to fight him. This is a guy who’s big and athletic, and he didn’t stand a chance. You wouldn’t have had a chance ei
ther.”
Alex Frey gave Walsh a pained look. “Did that poor woman suffer worse than Jill?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear lord.” Frey appeared stunned, then his face crumbled. “I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve ended Jill’s suffering. Because of me she suffered worse than she had to.”
Frey appeared to disappear into himself after that. Morris never got an answer to his question about whether Frey noticed any strangers at the engagement party. He knew there had to have been at least one, but he didn’t press any further. He was concerned that his questioning might push Alex Frey into a worse place, if that was even possible. Walsh was concerned enough also that she got Frey’s doctor, who, after a quick examination, sedated his patient. The doctor then asked for Morris and Walsh to leave. Parker was stubborn about doing so and Morris had to coax the bull terrier out of the room.
“That psycho crashed their engagement party,” Walsh told Morris as they took the elevator to the lobby. A redness peppering her cheeks showed her anger over that happening.
“I’ll get Polk looking into that,” Morris said.
“That was kind of sweet the way Parker acted in there.”
Morris was surprised by Walsh. Usually she was tough as nails, and he would’ve thought she’d be more annoyed than anything else that he had brought Parker into the hospital room.
He said, “The little guy’s a sensitive soul, at least when he’s not mooching food.”
He wasn’t sure Walsh had heard him. She appeared deep in thought and chewed silently on the inside of her gum as the elevator descended to the lobby. It wasn’t until they were outside and walking to his car that she let him in on what had been absorbing her.
“If that had been you, would you have really been able to watch Natalie being cut and stabbed with a knife without doing anything?”
The truth was Morris couldn’t say what he would’ve done. He blew out a lungful of air. “God knows,” he admitted.
Chapter 37
Jack Readinger walked into the downtown LA bar feeling good about how his day had gone so far. Earlier at the Van Nuys motel, he saw a scam he’d been working on for over a week come to fruition when he ripped off the mark for two grand, but that was only the beginning. He was going to take so much more from that soft white-collar fool before he was done. The sucker, a guy by the name of Wayne Hardacher, thought he was making a down payment on a hit on his wife, expecting to pay another two grand when the job was done. While Readinger had no problem icing anyone for two grand, he didn’t need to do that now. He had placed a pocket-sized digital voice recorder in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and Hardacher had a big mouth and incriminated himself enough inside the motel room that Readinger would now be able to use the threat of sending the recording to the police to squeeze Hardacher dry. It might take months, because something like this needed a slow, patient hand, but before he was done he was going to empty Hardacher’s bank accounts and make the idiot murder his wife himself for the insurance money so he could keep paying Readinger off. It was going to be the gift that kept on giving.
Yes indeed, an outstanding day so far! And as further proof that things were once again going his way, the Mountain Man was working behind the bar. Readinger might’ve been the only one who called him that, but the name fit. The Lumberjack wouldn’t have been a bad name either. A big, stocky barrel-chested man with long, unruly red hair and an even unrulier beard and mustache who always wore a red-checkered flannel shirt and jeans. Odds were that he was also wearing his steel-toe work boots so he could stomp the bejesus out of any misbehaving patrons.
Readinger stood until his eyes adjusted to the dimness inside the room, and then took a seat at the bar. When the Mountain Man looked his way, he sniffed loudly and made an exaggerated motion of rubbing his nose. He waited until the bartender approached him before telling him that he was looking for an eight ball.
“Pool table’s in the back,” the bartender deadpanned.
“You’re a funny guy and you know damn well that’s not the kind I’m looking for.” Readinger lowered his voice and edged closer to make sure no one else could hear him. “You still got Petty on call, right?”
Wilfred Petty was a skinny-assed punk who had the type of ravaged look of someone who had done way too much crack at one point in his life: Long, greasy blond hair, hollowed-out face, terrible complexion. But the guy could always be counted on to deliver coke that wasn’t cut on too severely, and the Mountain Man had hooked Readinger up with Petty on a number of occasions. This time, though, the bartender stayed silent. Readinger made a disgusted face as he worked his wallet out of his back pocket, plucked a twenty-dollar bill from a thick stack of others, and placed the bill on the bar. The bartender picked it up, slipped the twenty into his shirt pocket, and asked Readinger what he wanted to drink while he waited for Petty’s arrival.
“Jack and Coke.”
Readinger normally didn’t like diluting his whiskey with anything, but he was in the mood for something refreshing, and he also wanted to drive home the point of what he was really there for. He’d been feeling sluggish since leaving the Van Nuys motel and he could use the pick-me-up that a couple of snorts would provide. The Mountain Man poured the drink and gave him a suspicious look when he asked Readinger if he wanted to start a tab. That was just plain rude. Readinger had always paid his bills there and the bartender had seen that he was loaded. He didn’t have a good reason for thinking that Readinger would skip on his tab today, other than long ago sizing Readinger up and knowing full well what type of person he was. Because of that and his good fortune so far that day, Readinger decided to be generous and not take too much offense after all.
He was working on his third Jack and Coke when Petty arrived. Readinger caught the drug dealer’s eye, gave a head signal, and the two of them went to the men’s room, where they did business. Readinger waited until Petty finished counting his money before suggesting that Petty give him his phone number so that he could buy coke from him directly without having to go through the Mountain Man. Petty gave him a glazed, dead-eyed stare back in response.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said.
Readinger decided he couldn’t blame Petty for that. If he ever got Petty alone and didn’t have to worry about the Mountain Man and his steel-toed work boots doing a number on him, he probably would tie him up and torture Petty to get the location of his stash. Why not? He’d done the same to other coke dealers in the past who were foolish enough to meet him privately.
Petty left the men’s room. Readinger locked the door once Petty was gone and tested out the coke, doing four hits. Damn, what a truly exceptional day he was having! He still had over 1800 dollars in his wallet and he was going to be squeezing so much more out of Hardacher. He planned to utterly ruin the man’s life, and there was nothing Readinger liked better than sharing the pain.
He snorted one more hit of coke, made sure his nostrils were clean, and left the men’s room with a bounce in his step. A nice-looking dish was occupying the barstool next to the one he’d been sitting on earlier. The woman was in her twenties and had kind of a hippie look about her, with long, dark-brown hair that fell well past her shoulders, darkened granny-style glasses, and several cheap glass earrings sticking in each earlobe. She was wearing a flower-patterned sundress and as he got closer, he could see that she was skinnier than he usually liked and had small tits, but she also had soft, full lips and was more than pretty enough, even with a heavy despondency that showed in her eyes and in the way her shoulders slumped. He felt his pulse quicken as he noticed that. A possible honeypot? He wasn’t sure, but even if she wasn’t one, she looked like she’d been having a bad few days, which left her vulnerable and ripe for the picking—at least as long as Readinger played his cards right. Whichever it turned out to be—a full-fledged honeypot or a quick hookup—he planned to give it his best shot.
He caught her glancing his way when he sat back on his barstool. He lifted the glass he had left on the bar that held half of a Jack and Coke, and made a show of examining it.
“You didn’t drink any of this, did you?” he accused, a glint of violence in his eyes.
She looked too startled by the accusation to respond. Readinger broke out laughing.
“Just messing with you,” he said. A hard grin etched on his face. He held out his hand. “Jack,” he said.
Somewhat reluctantly, she took his hand and told him her name was Audrey.
His grin turned wolfish. “That was pretty mean of me, huh?” he said. “Scaring you like that.”
Some hurt showed on her gorgeous, pouty lips. “It wasn’t very nice,” she agreed.
“I know,” he conceded. “But you can’t really blame me. It’s just been one of those near-perfect days where everything just seems to be going right and it’s put me in a playful mood.”
He waited for her to ask him about everything that had been going right for him that day. When she didn’t, he volunteered the information.
“First, a bet I made paid off big, leaving over eighteen hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Second, I come back from the men’s room, and the hottest-looking babe I’ve seen in months is sitting on the barstool next to mine.”
That melted her a bit, at least enough for her to blush. “You’re quite the bullshitter,” she said.
“I can be,” he admitted. “But not about the money I got in my wallet, and not about how delicious-looking I find you.”
He gave her a look like he wanted nothing more than to lick every inch of her body. She should’ve gotten off the barstool and walked away then, but she was too damaged and instead stayed where she was, her blush deepening. He leaned toward her so he could put his lips right against her ear and whisper into it, and he felt the hotness of her skin when he did this.