by Lou Harper
I didn’t miss the plural in her reply but let it be. I was happy she’d gotten over her upset. “And for dessert… Where is it? Crap! I left the ice cream in the car. It’s probably strawberry soup by now. I’ll be right back.” I rushed out the door.
Charly’s building was an older one from the twenties or thirties, which meant a mix of charm and inconveniences. The location was great—on a quiet, tree-lined street but only a few minutes from the freeway. Unfortunately, there were only enough dedicated parking spots for one car per tenant, so I’d parked on the street. At least in middle of the day I’d found plenty of space right up front. As matter of fact, mine had been the only car in front of the building when I’d arrived. A silver sedan had pulled in front of it since.
I’d gotten the bag out of the backseat, locked the car and headed back to the building when I heard a car door open. The next moment, the strangest combination of pain and shock shot through my body. My muscles went rigid, and I plunged facedown onto the grass.
A man seized my wrists and clicked handcuffs on them. I tried to resist, but the pain and shock came back with force. I heard a sound like a bug zapper. It had to be a fucking Taser. I’d seen them on videos before. The fucker Tasered me! He dragged my unresisting body to the curb and wrestled it into the trunk of the sedan. I was too fucked up to get a good look at his face, but I had a suspicion.
I started kicking the trunk lid as soon as I could move again, but it did no good. The trunk could’ve doubled for a dry sauna, and I got winded in seconds. I stopped struggling. Acrid terror rose from the pit of my stomach, but I forced it back down and concentrated on getting my breathing under control. Do not panic, keep calm, think. I repeated the mantra till my heart stopped racing like a greyhound.
I lay still and listened. The sounds of cars and the smooth ride made me think we were on the freeway. There was no point banging—nobody would’ve heard me. A sudden buzzing under my right thigh scared the crap out of me, till I realized it was my phone. I’d totally forgotten stuffing it into the cargo pocket. That was good, I had a phone. Unfortunately, with my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn’t reach it. Cursed!
But at least I knew what I needed to do next—get my hands to the front. Five, six years ago, it would have been easy, but having put on some body mass made it more difficult. I was sure I could still do it if only I could sit up properly. In this confined space, it would be much harder, but I had to try. Unfortunately, the space was just too small—despite all my efforts, I only managed to scrape my wrists raw
I needed a new plan. When I heard the tires driving on gravel, I coiled up and waited so I could kick my kidnapper in the chest when he opened the trunk. I forgot about the Taser. Barely had the lid opened when Warren zapped me again. It hurt like fuck. I fell back, panting. Well, at least I knew for sure that my kidnapper was Warren, Clay Carson’s manager.
“The next one will be with a real gun, if you don’t stop the foolishness,” he said in a mild tone, as if we were discussing the weather. “Will you be a good boy?”
I nodded and let him haul me out. It was awkward with my hands behind me. We were inside a small garage, far too small to be part of Carson’s house. As Warren manhandled me inside the house proper, I could tell it was your average two-bedroom family home. I got a better look at Warren too. In blue work pants and shirt, he looked like a completely different person. He had the same old dark glasses on, though. He’d switched the Taser to a mean-looking revolver and jabbed me in the ribs with it. I’d used to think of him as a funny little man, but the pistol obliterated the fun factor altogether.
After my speech to Charly, getting kidnapped by a gun-wielding goblin was just too much to stomach. Fear and annoyance made me sassy. “If you wanted to see me, you could’ve just come by the store. Although, I must tell you, you’re not my type,” I quipped as he dragged me through the kitchen and down a short hallway into the bedroom.
“Don’t worry, I’m nobody’s type,” he said without self-pity and shoved me into a chair. “We wouldn’t be here if you’d just done what you were supposed to.”
“And what would’ve that been?” I asked irritably.
He made a sweeping gesture with his gun hand. “To blackmail Clay, of course. I had such high hopes when you showed up at the house. But you turned out to be an utter disappointment. Why? I practically handed you Clay on a silver platter. I told you when he’d be home, and when you didn’t show, I gave you an invitation to that fucking party. All you had to do was show up, flash your tattoo at Clay and demand money. Is that too much to ask? You were plenty eager for money that first time.”
Oh hell, he almost made sense. “So you sent the photo, and that was really Clay in it.”
He stared at me unblinking for several seconds. “You can’t seriously tell me you don’t remember fellating Clay Carson. He was already on TV by then.” His voice bubbled with disbelief. He didn’t know me well.
“I was most likely on Ecstasy, and I have a shitty memory for faces to begin with.”
With his free hand, he took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”
Before he put his glasses back, I got a glimpse of his eyes—one blue, another brown. I’d only seen eyes of that color combination once before. Recognition hit me like a sledge hammer. Had I not been cuffed, I would’ve pointed at him. “I know you! You picked me up on Hollywood Boulevard in a big black car!” The images flooded back. “You had more hair then. And a mustache. We drove to a house in the hillside, and there was another man there. The rest is a bit blurry.” I vaguely recalled two hundred-dollar bills and a blowjob. I also remembered taking X just before getting into the car. Yes, I’d been stupid.
Warren gave me a disgusted sneer. “There were other boys…who I’m sure would’ve done the right thing and run to Clay with their grabby little hands held out. But no, I had to pick the one idiot. Just because that tattoo was so distinct.” He waved. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
It mattered to me. “Why didn’t you just do it yourself? And why blackmail Carson to begin with? You’d surely make tons as his manager now that he’s becoming a big movie star.”
His face twisted into a scowl. “It has nothing to do with the money. I wanted to remind him he needed me. That I was the only one who truly understood and was his only friend. A little threat, I come to the rescue like last time, and we would’ve been back like we used to, before that bitch.” He spat the last word as if it was poison. He took a deep breath. “But it’s too late now. It all ends here.”
He moved to the bed, and I hastily looked around. The glow of lamplight made up for the curtains blocking the window. The room was fully furnished but felt sterile, unlived-in. The only thing out of place was the brown overnight bag from which Warren was unpacking things that gave me alarm—stuff made out of straps of leather and chains and a very large pink dildo. My fear got stronger.
He’d put the gun down within easy reach. He could pick it up and shoot a hole through me before I could close the distance between us. And my hands were still cuffed behind my back. Maybe if I created a diversion? But what? While I dithered, Warren finished unpacking, took the gun and sat at the corner of the bed, facing me.
“What now?” I asked.
“We wait.” He looked at his watch—a pretentious thing on gold wrist strap. “It won’t be long.”
I had no idea what we were waiting for, but I could at least try to find out how crazy he was. “I must know—why did you send me the first picture, the one without Carson?”
He smiled benevolently. “As a teaser. To whip up the excitement, like movie trailers do. Don’t try to tell me it didn’t work. Would the second one still have gotten you so worked up? Would you have run off to your friend?”
So he was following me around. Not a surprise. But it meant… “Why did you kill Riley?”
“Oh, that was an unfortunate accident. He recognized me, and apparently he recognized Clay too from the photo you’d s
hown him. He would’ve made a much better blackmailer. If only I’d known him sooner. Alas, it was too late. He had to go.”
I couldn’t figure how Riley would’ve known Warren, but then I remembered that Riley had been with me when Warren pulled up in his big car, and he must’ve seen Warren’s fugly mug. Unlike me, Riley had never forgotten a face or a slight. He’d been jealous of the money I made that night and the fact the man picked me, not him.
“How did you break into my apartment? I can’t see you climbing up on the balcony,” I asked, trying to ignore the sweat trickling down my spine.
“Balcony? I’m not a monkey. I picked the lock of your front door.”
He’d have to have done it at least once in broad daylight. “Wasn’t that risky?”
“Nah. Once you put on a blue uniform, nobody looks at you twice. Your door took two seconds to open.”
“But why stage my suicide? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I can assure you it would’ve made perfect sense. Did you know that the police treat all suicides as murder till proven otherwise? They would’ve found materials embarrassing to Clay in your home.”
How was I supposed to counter such loony logic? “But…how did that figure into your scheme of getting Carson back?”
“I had to change plans after it became clear Clay wouldn’t come around.”
“And what’s your plan now?”
“Revenge.” The gun pointing at the middle of my chest only made his smile more sinister. In another part of the house, a door opened and closed. “And here he is,” Warren said and stood.
I heard Carson shout from the other room, his voice thick with anger. “Warren, you lunatic, what the hell are you playing at now? I told you we were through. This is the last fucking time—” Clay Carson appeared in the doorway. “What the fuck is this?”
“Hello, Clay, my boy. You’ve forgotten something. I made you. You’ll always be mine.”
Warren raised the gun, and I knew he was going to pull the trigger. I catapulted out of the chair and crashed smack into him. The gun went off, making a deafening sound. From the corner of my eye, I saw Carson disappear from the doorway, but I had no time for him. Warren lost his balance, and I had a split second to act. I looped my cuffed wrists under my ass. I fell onto the bed as I pulled my feet through but jumped up right away. Just in time to grab Warren’s gun hand. I launched at it and bit down hard. Warren shouted in pain, and the gun clattered to the carpet, but he grabbed my throat with his other hand. We struggled—he had surprising strength for his size.
We wrestled across the room and back till I finally managed to kick him in the nuts. As we tumbled to the floor, his head cracked against the night table, and he went limp. I climbed off him and looked for the gun. When I found it, I kicked it under the bed. I wanted to get the fuck out of there but didn’t get too far. Clay Carson sat on the living room floor, slumped against the sofa, pressing his hand on his thigh. He didn’t look good. I skidded onto my knees next to him, straight into a pool of blood. “Are you shot?”
He looked at me with eyes wide and unfocused. “You.”
He was no help. I pried his hand away and saw the hole in his blood-soaked jeans. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Phone! I scrambled to pull my phone out now that I could finally reach it.
The 911 operator wanted to know where I was. I told her I had no fucking idea, but a man was shot and bleeding pretty fucking bad. The bloody phone slipped out of my hand. I remembered seeing something on TV about a man who got bitten by a shark. I had to put a tourniquet on Carson. I needed something… Belt! I didn’t wear one, but Carson did. I took it off, put it high around his thigh and pulled it as tight as I could. My movements were awkward with the cuffs still on. Carson’s eyes were open and still staring, but I couldn’t tell if he saw me at all.
I heard sirens and knew I needed to go to the door so the EMTs would know where we were, but I was afraid to leave Carson. I shook him. “Hey, can you hold this?” He didn’t respond.
I was looking around for my phone when the main entrance burst open. All I saw first was a figure in a blue uniform, and for a second, I thought it was Nick, but Nick didn’t wear a uniform. And the voice was a woman’s. “Drop your weapon!”
I snapped my head in the direction her gun pointed and saw Warren barreling forward from the kitchen with a butcher knife raised high in his hand. He kept going after the first bullet hit his chest. The second one made a neat little hole in his forehead and stopped him dead. He swayed for a second and then fell to his knees and flopped facedown onto the carpet.
There were more sirens, more uniforms. A growing crowd rubbernecked from the other side of the police cordon. A helicopter whop-whop-whopped above, and I saw the first media van arrive. Soon the vultures would be everywhere, attracted by the smell of death and scandal. I sat sideways on the backseat of a police cruiser, trying to stay out of view. At least someone had removed the cuffs. The ambulance took Carson away, and I was left to explain to an eager fireman that none of the blood was mine.
“I’ll take it from here.”
I’d never been so happy to hear Nick’s voice, but I snapped at him anyway. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I was across town when your sister called.”
“She did?” I’d kinda forgotten about Charly in the whole almost-getting-killed ordeal.
“She said she knew something bad happened when you didn’t come back upstairs and she found the bag with melted ice cream at the curb. She tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. So she called me next.”
I buried my head in my hands. “I’ll never live this down.”
“She was extremely worried.”
“Exactly.”
“Smart girl, Charly is. She remembered that you have that Find My Phone app on your iPad. She tracked you that way.”
I looked up. “Oh? That is smart.”
“Unfortunately, tracking your phone didn’t do much good till you stopped. I was too far away but radioed it in as a kidnapping. The closest patrol car had a much better chance getting to you in time.”
“My phone. I dropped it.”
I moved to stand, but Nick pushed me back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to get my phone. It’s somewhere in the living room.”
“You can’t. It’s evidence now.”
“It’s not evidence. It’s my fucking phone!” I heard the hysteria in my own voice.
“Shhh. Calm down. You’ll get it back. But not right now. Here.” He handed me a tissue. I hadn’t even noticed the tears running down my face. Nick crouched down, so now we were in the odd position where he had to look up at me. “It’s over. Done. You understand?”
“He killed Riley.” I dabbed my eyes with the tissue.
I heard a man clear his throat just as a pair of black leather shoes entered my field of vision. I followed the line of slacks to a jacket and a familiar, stern face.
“Detective Lipkin will take you to the station so you can make your statement,” Nick explained. “You want to be out of here, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’ll see you later.” He reached out and with his thumb wiped the wetness from the corner of my eye. “Everything will be all right,” he murmured, and I couldn’t help but believe him.
Chapter Ten
The Clay Carson murder was the biggest news on TV for a long while. Bigger than when Phil Hartman got shot by his wife, although not as big as the O.J. case.
“It’s totally not how it happens in the movies—you never die from getting shot in the leg,” I complained to Nick. I was kneeling on my living room carpet while he stood over me with a long piece of black rope in his hands.
“The bullet severed an artery, and he bled out within minutes.”
“If only I’d known what to do…”
“No. Don’t even go there. It was already too late when you got to him, and you did your best.”
The media had a field day pa
inting Warren as a movie villain—too nefarious to be true. All he was missing was a hunchback. They had an abundance of material to work with. Some of it might have been leaked by the police; other stuff they dug up themselves. Warren had had a shady past with a prior arrest for assault, a whole ten years of his life unaccounted for, and little things like Warrick not being his real name. And, of course, the juiciest bit—DNA and other evidence connecting him to two other murders. One was Riley, the other one a sixteen-year-old runaway found strangled in a fleabag motel years ago. I wondered if that was what he’d meant by last time. His way of coming to Carson’s rescue could’ve easily meant murdering the blackmailer. I also wondered if Carson knew about that part. We’d never find out now.
“Are you sure about this?” Nick asked, threading the rope through his fingers.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“You won’t be able to move your hands.” Worry ruffled his expression.
“Nick, I have newfound phobias about handcuffs, guns and bow ties. But not ropes.” I glared up at him from my spot on his living room carpet, where I was kneeling like last time, although not as naked. I had jeans on. Nick insisted we do this only to test my tolerance to being bound. No fun times.
“All right, but tell me if you feel even a hint of panic. Don’t try to be a man about it,” he said, kneeling next to me.
The denim stretched over his thighs, and I had a hard time not picturing the solid body under the clothes. Especially with the scent of his aftershave teasing my nose. I sighed. “Right, right. Do your thing.” He began to loop the rope around my chest, and I closed my eyes but couldn’t relax. There were too many questions churning in my brain. “Hey, how come I had to learn about the DNA evidence from the paper? You could’ve told me.”
“To a person of interest? Hardly.”
“Touché. I don’t think Warren was right in the head. The blackmail scheme, I can almost see that, but what was he hoping to achieve in the end?”
“Some twisted form of revenge. He probably planned to make the scene look like a murder-suicide. It would’ve destroyed Carson’s reputation and would’ve stuck it to Kat Fontaine. He hated her for taking away his control over Carson.”