Unleashed

by Jacob Stone

  “Sorry, I don’t. Only that I haven’t heard a peep over there and his mailbox hasn’t been emptied in at least that long.”

  “You two been neighbors for a while?”

  “Oh golly, since they moved in. That would be over four years now.”

  “What’s your impression of Mr. Moss?”

  Her raisin-sized eyes hardened as if she didn’t like the insinuation that there would be anything wrong with her neighbor.

  “Duncan is a fine, young man. Hardworking, and he was deeply devoted to Julia. If you think he had anything to do with what happened to her, you’re badly mistaken.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not thinking anything. We have what we hope is a break in the case, and I need to discuss it with Mr. Moss, that’s all.”

  “Duncan will be so pleased to hear that. I know this has been tearing him apart. I wish I could tell you how to reach him.”

  She nodded hesitantly at Bogle, as if she wasn’t sure about the proper etiquette in this situation, and then stepped back into her apartment. Bogle could’ve looked for the landlord to let him into Moss’s apartment, but the guy or gal could be a stickler wanting a warrant, and he had brought a lockpick set with him and the lock looked like a garden-variety one. After less than a minute of fiddling around, he had the apartment door unlocked.

  He had hoped to find a letter, note, or something that would help him find Moss, but there was nothing in the small one-bedroom apartment. No mail stacked up in the kitchen, no notes attached to the refrigerator with magnets, no papers in the bedroom or the room that served as a combination living room-dining room, nothing useful in any drawers. Wherever Moss had gone, he made sure to clean up the apartment before he left. From the stale, musty smell in the apartment, no one had been in there for at least a couple of weeks.

  In the bedroom, Bogle came across a framed photo of the couple. Julia Swan was beaming with happiness while Moss was smiling in a more self-conscious way. Bracken’s file didn’t include any photos of Moss, and the only ones he had of Swan were the crime scene and autopsy photos, and it was impossible to tell from those how absolutely stunning she was.

  Bogle took the photo from the frame, figuring he’d add it to Julia Swan’s homicide file.

  Chapter 58

  Los Angeles, the present

  The stakeout’s going to be a bust.

  It was a quarter past five, no sign of the Cupid Killer, and Stonehedge was feeling a sense of deflation as he nursed his fourth beer since he’d been there, trying to drag out the process. The guy must’ve smelled a setup and wasn’t coming; Stonehedge was sure of it. He’d stick around until Morris gave the signal for them to clear out, but at this point he was wasting his time, and feeling awfully foolish about it—especially after the ultimatum he’d made to the bartender.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a woman sitting at the bar, staring at him, and he turned to smile at her. Twenties, long brown hair, slender body, cute face—at least from what he could see with a third of her face covered by a pair of oversized sunglasses. There was something familiar about her. Did he ever work with her? She had the looks to be an actress, but he couldn’t place her. If she had recognized him through his disguise, she could blow his cover, not that that would matter much anymore; but still, as a matter of pride he’d prefer it not to happen.

  Well, he needed to have a chat with her!

  He pushed himself out of his booth, approached the bar, and asked the bartender to get the lady whatever she wanted. She seemed surprised by this, but told the bartender she’d have a vodka martini. While the bartender was busy mixing the drink, Stonehedge leaned toward her so he could whisper, “You recognized me, huh?”

  The expression that froze her face took Stonehedge aback. A panicked flight-or-fight look. Her voice caught in her throat as she asked, “How’d you know I was with him?”

  This confused Stonehedge even more, but he asked her to join him at his booth so they could talk privately.

  The bartender brought over the vodka martini, Stonehedge handed him a twenty, telling him to keep the change, and as he led the way back to the booth he wondered what she meant by that. It was only after he sat back down that he understood why she looked so familiar. She wasn’t wearing the trench coat or floppy hat he had seen in the photo Fred Lemmon had taken of the woman who approached Wayne Hardacher at the Santee Alley flea market parking lot, but those were the same sunglasses, and Stonehedge gulped as he realized she was the same woman.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and she reached across the table, grabbed his prosthetic nose, and yanked it off.

  “You’re wearing a disguise?” she hissed at him, a wild panic in her eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who are you?”

  Stonehedge was flabbergasted as he made sense of the fact that the Cupid Killer had sent a proxy to the bar instead of showing up himself. The woman’s panic had become so palpable that he could feel it in his own gut. She turned to flee the booth and ran into a waiting Annie Walsh. Fred Lemmon stood behind Walsh and remarked that she was the same woman from the flea market. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her when she came in,” he added with disgust.

  The woman tried to fight her way past Walsh, but that didn’t go particularly well for her and she was slammed face-first into the table and cuffed. The bartender ambled over as if he were going to stick his nose into the situation, and Walsh barked at him to back off.

  “LAPD,” she growled. She showed him her badge. “Fred, make sure Curly over here doesn’t make any phone calls.”

  “Will do.”

  The woman who’d been cuffed and still bent over the table began sobbing, insisting she hadn’t done anything.

  “We’ve got you on tape delivering a blackmail demand to Wayne Hardacher earlier today.”

  “Jack made me do that!” she sobbed, strands of saliva dripping from her mouth and pooling on the table.

  Walsh lifted the woman to her feet and turned her around so she could look in her eyes. “Jack, your blackmail partner, is the Cupid Killer. Did you know that?”

  Audrey stopped her sobbing. “That’s not possible,” she said.

  “The guy, Jack, he’s got a wolf’s-face tattoo on his wrist, right? Where is he?”

  She stared at Walsh as if she were waiting for a punch line. When she realized one wasn’t coming, she reacted as if she’d been slapped.

  “I swear, I had no idea,” she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. She gave Walsh a look as if this was all some big misunderstanding. “Two days ago I was ready to give up on my dreams of being an actress and fly back to Des Moines, but then I met Jack at a bar and he got me drunk and coked up and made me do things I didn’t want to do, but I had no idea about him being the Cupid Killer—”

  “Unless you want to be charged as an accomplice, you better damn well tell me where he is right now!”

  Walsh’s words cut through her crippling fear.

  “I’ll tell you,” she promised.

  * * * *

  Morris received a call from Walsh telling him that the Cupid Killer had sent a woman named Audrey Zairn into the High Spot Lounge, and that Zairn was supposed to take Stonehedge into a block-long alley behind the lounge.

  “Did you get the Cupid Killer’s name?” he asked.

  “Jack Readinger.”

  “And he’s waiting somewhere in the alley?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Does he have a gun?”

  “She says no. A knife only.”

  Morris had the police block off both ends of the alley and then he, Parker, Greg Malevich, and two uniformed officers started from one end, while Polk, Ray Vestra, and three officers started from the other. When Parker began growling at a dumpster, Morris kicked it as hard as he could, making a thunderous racket.

  “Jack, it’s all over. Come on out, unless you want a headache to
go along with being arrested.”

  Parker’s growling grew louder, but not a peep from the Cupid Killer. Malevich and the other officers drew their guns, their faces tense.

  “Jack, this is going to get serious real fast. I suggest you get out from behind there before you get something far worse than a migraine.”

  Morris picked up a brick and slammed it against the dumpster.

  A man’s voice yelled out, “All right, all right, just don’t shoot me.”

  Readinger crawled out from behind the dumpster. In person, he had a ratlike, feral look, and didn’t resemble a young Kurt Russell much at all. Malevich cuffed him behind his back and after patting him down, removed a switchblade from one of his boots.

  Readinger wore a red long-sleeved knit shirt—most likely choosing it so it wouldn’t show any of the blood he expected to get splattered on it. Morris pulled the right sleeve up and saw the wolf’s-face tattoo on the underside of his wrist.

  “You’ve been keeping us busy the last four days,” he said.

  Readinger gave him a puzzled grin, as if he had no idea what Morris meant. Morris didn’t much care for that look—it was as if Readinger knew all they had was the tattoo, and that he’d been careful enough at the murder sites not to leave behind any DNA or prints, or any other evidence for them to find.

  Malevich’s voice became a dull monotone as he read Readinger his rights and Readinger played dumb, claiming he dropped a quarter and it rolled behind the dumpster. “I went back there to pick it up. That’s all. You’re telling me there’s a law against doing that?”

  That was about the most idiotic story Morris had heard from a perp during all his years on the force and as an investigator. From the screw-you grin twisting Readinger’s lips, he had to know it was idiotic, but it didn’t stop him from glibly using it. Morris had no doubt they were going to need shovels to dig out from all the bullshit Readinger would be serving them later.

  If Malevich was insulted by Readinger treating them like idiots, he didn’t show it as he maintained a bored countenance while informing Readinger they were arresting him for solicitation to commit murder and attempted blackmail.

  “I got no idea what you’re talking about,” Readinger claimed, still playing dumb and still showing a hint of his screw-you smile. “Did some crazy, brown-haired bitch put you up to this? I hooked up with her last night, and she was hell on wheels this morning, accusing me of shit that made no sense. I wouldn’t put it past her to make up this kind of bizarro story.”

  Morris said, “We got a confession from Wayne Hardacher.”

  “I got no idea who he is,” Readinger insisted without missing a beat. “Maybe he and that crazy bitch are working some angle together. Who knows?”

  The smirk he flashed Morris told him that Readinger must’ve realized the real reason they arrested him. He would’ve had to—there were too many cops on the scene for it to be only what he was told. From the way he was grinning he must’ve believed they didn’t have enough to hold him on the Cupid Killer murders, but he didn’t know they knew about Boston and Oakland. If they could place him in those cities when Suzanne Markin and Julia Swan were killed, the DA would have enough circumstantial evidence for a grand jury indictment, possibly also a conviction.

  Hell with him, Morris thought. They weren’t going to tell Readinger about Boston and Oakland. Let him think he had a chance of getting away with those murders.

  A police cruiser arrived and Readinger was still grinning when he was put in the backseat. From the way Parker continued to growl at him, he would’ve bitten him if given the chance.

  For Parker’s sake and not Readinger’s, Morris kept a short leash on the bull terrier. He didn’t want his dog getting ptomaine poisoning.

  Chapter 59

  Doug Gilman’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and told Rachel her dad was calling, then had a quick, mostly one-sided conversation in which he only muttered the words wow and okay before getting off the call. A glint of excitement shone in his eyes as he told Rachel that Morris had arrested a suspect for the Cupid Killer murders.

  “They don’t have any physical evidence yet tying him to the murders, but he’s got the same unusual tattoo on his wrist.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a lot,” Rachel said.

  “Your dad feels strongly about this guy.”

  Gilman and Rachel were at a table at their favorite Chinese restaurant and had placed their order ten minutes earlier. He smiled apologetically at his fiancée and told her he needed to head back to their apartment so he could put on a suit before meeting Morris at the Wilcox Avenue Hollywood precinct, where the suspect was taken.

  “Here’s another idea,” Rachel said. “Instead of spending a half hour driving back and forth to change your clothes, we could spend the time eating dinner, and then you could go to the precinct wearing what you have on. As far as I’m concerned, you look every bit as dashing in your cargo shorts and polo shirt as you do in your suit.”

  Gilman cleared his throat, a slight blush tingeing his cheeks. “That may be true, my dear, but I’ve got a certain image to uphold.” Then, more seriously, “Depending on how your dad wants to handle this, I might need to talk to the media later. How about you stay and enjoy dinner? You can take an Uber home later?”

  “That’s okay, we’ll have them pack up the food.” She showed him her best inscrutable flinty-eyed look and added, “Somebody’s got to help you pick out the right tie!”

  Gilman made an exaggerated harrumphing noise and waved over their waiter so he could pay the bill and get their food to-go. Once they were in the car driving back to their apartment, Rachel told him she’d make him a sandwich to take with him. “You’re not waiting until midnight or later to eat anything,” she decided.

  He agreed, as long as she made him a roast beef and cheddar on sourdough, which he knew they had in the fridge. Since Rachel was vegan, it was up to him to keep track of buying deli meats and cheeses.

  “As long as it’s with mustard and not mayonnaise.”

  “Deal,” he said, knowing better than to argue this point with her. The Bricks considered putting mayonnaise on roast beef sandwiches an unnatural act.

  After that, they drifted into a comfortable silence. Gilman found himself hoping Morris was right and they had taken the Cupid Killer off the streets. The murders had struck a deep chord in him, and he found it simply unimaginable what the victims went through—both the men and women. All he knew was he’d rather die than ever see Rachel hurt like that. A shiver ran through him, his body convulsing as if he’d been hit with an electric current. Rachel placed a delicate, slender hand on his arm. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her concern.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “My mind drifted to something unpleasant,” he admitted.

  “Well, don’t let that happen. Think instead of what we’ll be doing when you get home.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You’re vegan. Why would you be joining me in heating up the Sichuan-spiced chicken?”

  She gave him what was supposed to be a playful tap on the shoulder, although he still winced. The Bricks were a tough breed, even when they were only five feet one and weighed less than a hundred pounds like Rachel.

  “What we’ll be doing after you eat.”

  “Brushing our teeth?”

  “After that.”

  Gilman’s tone turned more serious as he said, “You’ve got an eight o’clock class tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be asleep by the time I get home.”

  “If I am, wake me. I mean it.”

  “You’ll be too tired tomorrow morning.”

  Her hand moved to his thigh. It was a loving gesture only, but it still gave him an instant erection. Rachel had that effect on him. His cargo shorts always bunched up at the crotch when he sat, so there was a good chance she hadn’t noticed it. But if she
did, she didn’t let on to the fact.

  “Nothing an extra cup of coffee won’t fix,” she said.

  He nodded, not trusting himself to talk. Since they’d become a couple they’d had many moments like this, where he wanted her so badly it caused him physical pain. He probably had time for a quickie and he was sure Rachel would be up for it, but the thought of meeting Morris right after having sex with the man’s daughter frightened him. He could imagine the way Morris would look at him, knowing what he and Rachel had done, and that thought was as effective on his libido as a cold shower.

  He pulled into the parking lot behind their building, and Rachel’s hand found his as they walked into the apartment building, their fingers interlacing.

  “Sorry about ruining our date night,” he said.

  She bumped him with a very slender hip. “And yet I still love you.”

  “What can I say?” he said, struggling to suppress a grin. “I’m a lucky guy.”

  “I’d have to agree.”

  The grin he’d been fighting so hard to keep hidden broke free. They walked hand in hand into the elevator and once they had some privacy, he tilted Rachel’s chin upward and stole a kiss. Since their apartment was only on the third floor, the kiss was unfortunately a short one. They were all business as they left the elevator, acting as if the kiss had never happened.

  When they approached their apartment door, Gilman felt Rachel’s body stiffen. He turned toward the fire stairs to see what she was looking at. A man dressed in black clothing and wearing a ski mask was approaching them at a fast clip, a gun stretched out in his right hand. Gilman saw a tattoo of some sort on the underside of the man’s right wrist. A wolf baring its fangs?

  “I’ll shoot both of you if either of you move,” the man growled, his voice muffled by the ski mask.

  Gilman froze, his legs becoming blocks of ice. Rachel might’ve tried running back to the elevator, but she wasn’t about to leave him, and whatever slim chance they had was gone. The man was on them in seconds, the barrel of the gun pressing against the side of Rachel’s head.