The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset)

by Doug Richardson

  “Karrie and men?” asked Andrew, slightly choked by incredulity. “Like eighteen-year-old guys?”

  “Or a lot older,” cautioned Lucky. “Could bear on where and how we’re looking if your girl had a thing for—”

  “Men. Yeah. Heard you.”

  “Hard to swallow?”

  “I’m her GD father. What do you think?”

  “Assume she’s also sexually active?” Lucky made sure to take a firm gaze at Andrew with that assertion. He felt the need to see just how much grit the missing girl’s father possessed. Lucky had refrained from such questions. But if Andrew couldn’t be real with him, what were the chances they’d be able to turn his research into hard leads?

  “Her mom took her to get birth control pills,” admitted Andrew. “So you can infer what you want.”

  Lucky just listened.

  “Not like I discovered ’em on the bathroom counter. Elise left a message on my voicemail like it was a reminder to call the tree trimmers. ‘Hi. Just thought I’d let you know that Dr. Singh has prescribed Karrie birth control pills. Don’t freak out when you see ’em. Don’t interrogate her. It’s a girl thing and it’s sensitive so just act like it’s nothing.’”

  Then came the big question. It had been right in front of Lucky since he’d sat across from Andrew at his local, low-down Reseda deli-mart. Why hadn’t he asked it yet? Instinct? Timing? Lucky had experienced so much as a cop and detective that much of what he did and said while on the job was unconscious.

  Only the question wasn’t at all unconscious. Lucky no longer wanted to assume. He wanted to know.

  “Gotta ask you,” began Lucky. “But most fifteen-year-olds like the comforts of home.”

  “One home,” corrected Andrew. “Kids want one home. One family.”

  “So you know the question.”

  “You wanna know why she ran.”

  Lucky slowed for a stoplight. The patches of mist gusting in from the beach blew across the windshield in brushstrokes of pinkish red.

  “Suppose she hates the both of us,” answered Andrew. The grapefruit-sized lump in his throat swallowed most of his manly bass. “I hate my ex. She hates me. Guess this is how Karrie decided to express herself.”

  “Think maybe she doesn’t wanna be found?” broached Lucky.

  “She’s fifteen.”

  “We’ve established that.”

  “What are you implying?” angered Andrew. “That she’s better off?”

  “Not hardly.” Lucky shook his head and applied the gas as the light turned the mist into emerald green. “Just stating what you’re up against.”

  “What we are up against,” argued Andrew. “We have an agreement.”

  “We do,” nodded Lucky.

  “I knew what you meant. Just hard, you know. Accepting the truth.”

  “See the Christmas lights? Promenade’s comin’ up on the right,” switched Lucky. “Shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours to paper the place and move on.”

  14

  West Hollywood. 7:01 P.M.

  Liza Witt was barely a week out of rehab and attending two meetings a day. First thing in the morning at St. Agatha’s on Wilshire over in the Miracle Mile district—and then the evening AA group on Melrose near La Cienega. This wasn’t her first go around. Her most recent stint in detox and recovery was her third. The charm, she joked. All before the tender age of twenty-five. Higher education had become a washout for her. But at that moment, she didn’t need that kind of pressure. For maybe the first time in her sketchy history of sobriety, she was truly taking it one day at a time. Thank Jesus for the trust fund her Nana had set up for her troubled grand babies. Otherwise Liza would be stressing over rent or a minimum wage job. Because of the forethought of her loving grandma, Liza could wake up with no pressure or plan to do anything that day but stay straight…

  …and shop.

  It had been barely a couple of hours since she had wandered into Marc Jacobs on Melrose, fallen madly in lust with a brown suede quilted handbag, slid her platinum card into the hand of the sales girl with the super-cute fringe bangs, and walked out feeling like a whole new woman. The dopamine boost she got from the purchase got her wondering if shopping would be another addiction from which she would need a stint in rehab. She quickly forbade the thought and carried on to her next destination, her evening AA meet-up.

  The smell off hot coffee hit her before she hit the back door of the old ninety-nine seat theater. Folding chairs were assembled on the stage in a simple orbit. There was no dais or lectern. No supposed head seat. Equanimity was what the evening group was about. A circle of sharing and trust. A brotherhood of addicts who, as individuals, were helpless against their disease. But as one?

  “Somebody’s early,” said Rodney, his voice slightly reverberating through the space.

  Liza dropped her things on a chair and let her Proenza boots carry her toward the voice, her four-inch heels sounding like a pair of toy hammers pounding nails into the stage.

  Rodney, the self-proclaimed proud-n-loud Diana Ross impersonator, stood in a half-lit corner at the foot of the stage-left stairs. Tuesday was his for providing the caffeine and carbs required for any self-respecting AA meeting. Instead of the usual box of Krispy Kremes he’d gotten busy in his own apartment kitchen and whipped up a pile of raisin scones.

  “Pure Irish,” Rodney boasted of his baked goods. “Sinful with butter, but better with jam.”

  “Does that line work for you in boy bars?” asked Liza.

  “Said it just now for the first time,” said Rodney before his eyes mockingly rolled up into the back of his skull. “Least I think.”

  Liza couldn’t resist the scones and when she picked up the fist-sized confection, felt it was still warm.

  “Wow, you really did just make these,” she exclaimed.

  “Hips don’t lie. And neither will yours if you have more than one of ’em.”

  “That’s what I forgot to do today. The gym.”

  “You still doin’ two-a-days?”

  “With retail therapy in between.”

  “Anything I’d like?”

  “New bag,” said Liza. “Mark Jacobs.”

  “Just today?”

  “Warmer than your scones.”

  “In your car?”

  “Hell no,” said Liza, pointing a perfectly manicured nail. “On my chair—”

  Rodney’s eyes would normally have followed the direction of that index finger. But his gaze was prematurely stuck on the twenty-something’s face—her quizzical look, candy red lips slightly parted in confusion.

  “It was right…” began Liza, then her feet started moving back toward the stage while belting, “Where’s my new fucking purse?”

  A few other early comers froze in place, wondering what the hell kind of lightning bolt had set the pretty fashionista into her sudden rage.

  “I just left it!” she barked, arriving at her chair. “Right here on top of my jacket.”

  Liza received little more than shrugs from the few other early-comers who were milling about, finding chairs.

  “Did it have like a thick embroidered thing on the strap?” asked the model-type, smoking in her pink-on-pink sweats. “Cuz when I just walked in there was this dude walking out—”

  “Was a Mark Jacobs.”

  “That’s why I noticed it!” said the model-type. “Just a minute ago. Right out the back door I saw—”

  “Guy with a purse and you didn’t think it was weird?” asked another addict.

  “We’re in West Hollywood?” the model-type defended. “Hello?”

  In the meantime, Liza was bee-lining toward the back door as fast as those designer boots would allow. Attendees were beginning to drag in, each smelling of cigarette smoke or minty-fresh Life Savers. She pushed past each of them, sliding sideways to avoid a head-on collision inside the threshold.

  The side alley was dark but for the light splashed from a pan lamp hanging over the stage door. Liza twisted l
eft and right—to the street and then the back alley. She chose the back alley. And was just beginning to run when a hand spun her from the elbow. Rodney was up in her grill.

  “You check the street,” he said, breathlessly. “You see a cop, wave him down.”

  With that, the female impersonator dashed into the darkness, hustling headlong toward the back alley. Liza, stood frozen for a heartbeat, then switched directions and ran toward the lights of Melrose Avenue.

  15

  Herm was rarely late. Especially to AA meetings. Since his teen years he’d taken pride in his timeliness. An appointment time was, in his opinion, a contract—an agreement between two or more parties to meet at a pre-determined hour. As a pimp, he would brag that his girls were prompt enough to be on television. If TV Guide said a M.A.S.H. rerun would air at seven thirty, so it would. Herm even began nicknaming his stable after his favorite shows and, in sober moments, could still remember them all. There was Three’s Company, Hill Street Blues, Twin Peaks, Lost…

  “Hey, I Love Lucy,” Herm used shout from his Mercedes window, “you got customers waiting at the Sportsmen’s Lodge.”

  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That was the official diagnosis. He’d suffered from the illness his entire life. And once cocaine was introduced, that character defect which proved so rigid turned into a violent, unbendable rod of titanium. What followed were stints in county jail and prison, involuntary detox, and a state-issued membership in Narcotics Anonymous. Sobriety eventually stuck. Which was why Herm was in a bit of a rush to make the Tuesday meeting at the Senior Center on Melrose.

  The call to Cherry Pie had gone as expected. Earlier in the afternoon he’d phoned the number she’d left. He’d informed her that the German client had liked what he’d seen and wanted to get her on video reading some recently added dialogue. As Cherry was beside herself, gladly taking down the details, Herm had a suggestion. The Audi people had a notion that, for the commercial, two girls might be better than one. And could Cherry please bring her roommate.

  “My roommate?” Cherry had asked.

  “Didn’t I meet her?” Herm had replied. “Strawberry blonde, freckles, green eyes? Think the two of you could be dynamite together.”

  “Oh, Val,” answered Cherry. “She’s not my official roomie. Just crashing with me right now.”

  “But you could bring her?”

  “I’d have to ask her, but yeah.”

  “Wanna put the two of you on tape together.”

  They agreed on 9 P.M. Herm hadn’t reserved an audition room, but that was part of his play. Meet the girls out front, feign some kind of secretarial error, then recommend a nearby private studio which he would claim he could borrow. Of course, he would drive. Within the hour, Little Miss Unicorn would be bagged and tagged. The photographs would come next. Plain. No frills. Just the young girl and her untapped beauty against a white wall backdrop.

  Ka-ching!

  It was barely 7 P.M. Time enough for Herm to make an AA meeting. There was the seven-fifteen group that met in a function room behind Melrose’s Sweetwater Café. After eight years sober, Herm’s AA attendance had bordered on religious. Two or three times a week minimum. An hour here and there. The meetings were like a church of meditation. Whether he shared or just closed his eyes and soaked in the sobriety struggles of his addicted brethren, the act of attending took at least twenty points off his diastolic blood pressure.

  But Herm hadn’t calculated on all the traffic snags with the nearing holiday.

  “You can turn right on red you moron!” Herm shouted from behind the wheel of his new Ford Edge. But with so much sound-proofing in the vehicle’s panels, he could practically hear his words being swallowed.

  Two cars ahead, the Corolla’s blinker flashed and wheels turned, ready to swing a right turn. But the driver was either old or paralyzed or a transplant from New York that hadn’t yet read the California memo that it was okay to turn right on a red light.

  “Ass clown,” muttered Herm while checking his rearview mirror. The alley that cut east to west was thirty feet behind him. The demarcation line between Melrose businesses and residents. Better yet, there were no cars stuck behind him.

  As if on auto, Herm dropped the SUV’s gearbox into reverse. The digital dashboard display flipped into video mode, revealing a wide-angle rear bumper view. Herm checked the image and accelerated so quickly his wheels chirped against the asphalt. In a matter of seconds, Herm was back on time, surging down the alley, both gaining speed and, more importantly, beating the infernal traffic.

  The potholed strip of back alley was rough riding, but nearly empty of cars and ran at least eleven uninterrupted blocks. Not only was Herm getting to his AA meeting on time, he’d have time to hit the 7-Eleven next door for a Super Big Gulp cocktail of Diet Coke and lemony sweet Mountain Dew.

  As Herm inched the accelerator closer and closer to the floor, the SUV’s spanking new suspension absorbed the pitch and potholes so well, Herm might have had the chance to read the addresses posted on the rear of each business. But the alley was barely lit, and only by the rear porch lamps which hung over all the bolted backdoors. Herm kept twisting his neck left, hoping for some street numbers to register against his eyeballs.

  Going too fast, you jackass.

  He glanced to the speedometer and was alarmed when he read the needle floating between seventy and eighty MPH.

  “Wow,” said Herm to himself, instantly backing off the accelerator.

  The engine wound back a thousand RPMs and decided to downshift into fourth. That’s when Herm felt the whump. Was it a problem in the automatic transmission? Or another impossible-to-see pothole absorbed by the chassis? The car had surely bucked on him. Maybe he’d run over a cardboard box? If so, it would probably be stuck in the undercarriage.

  Easing further on the gas pedal, Herm felt the pull. Something was dragging, stuck underneath the SUV. He rolled down the window and his face was smacked by the atmospheric chill. His ears were keen, though. He could hear scraping across the asphalt.

  “SonofaBITCH,” burst Herm, applying the brakes hard enough to fuss with gravity. The front end of the SUV dipped. Herm heard and felt a slight snap beneath the floorboard. Whatever had been trapped underneath had cut itself loose. Eighty feet later, Herm and his new Ford Edge had finally come to a rest.

  With the brake lights in full flare, Herm checked his rearview mirror to see just what the hell he’d run into. He scoured the frame yet couldn’t make out even a panel of cardboard. Herm needed more light. He gripped the shift knob and coolly slipped the transmission into reverse gear. The backup lights engaged, blasting the red haze with white while, inside the SUV, the display screen switched to the rear-facing camera view. The wide-angle shot was a grainy, high-contrast image and showed little detail beyond the first ten feet.

  Fine, fine. I’ll back up.

  Herm let his foot off the brake and the SUV rolled backward as if being guided by the concrete drainage strip that bisected the alley. His eyes never left the screen as he steered the car like it was some kind of video game. At last, a disheveled pile appeared. Some kind of colored, print fabric. This is when Herm figured he had probably run over somebody’s suitcase, the lock exploding underneath his car and depositing the clothes into a congealed polyester clump.

  With the mystery in his mind solved, Herm should have braked, cranked the transmission back into drive, and carried on with his appointed plan. 7-Eleven. AA meeting. Hook up with Cherry Pie and her young, unicorn roomie at the audition space.

  But it was something about that backup camera. The super wide angle. The way with every reversing tire-turn, more detail would come into focus while, at the same time, the distant parts of the image fell off into the oddly curved blackness. It mesmerized him so that he wasn’t so much paying attention to that clothes pile he inched closer to until his rear bumper was a mere five feet from it.

  That’s when he jammed his foot onto the brake.

  That clump of fabr
ics was no print pattern. It was a blood-spattered mangle of a person that lay twisted in the middle of the alley. With mannequin arms and legs askew, inhumanly posed.

  “Holy fuck…” Herm heard himself utter.

  The cognitive receptors of his brain couldn’t believe what he was staring at. But the limbic region, otherwise known as the reactive frontal lobe, had its own impulse.

  Fucking get the fuck out of here!

  As it turned out, Rodney had never seen Herm’s speeding SUV. One second he was on his feet, fully committed to facing down the purse thief. Then in an eye-blink, he was blindly struck and raked into the car’s undercarriage. Unconsciousness came in an instant. Death, though, wasn’t as accommodating. It would take Rodney four full days before the doctors at Cedars-Sinai recommended that he be removed from all life support. At the time, there were still no suspects in the hit and run crime.

  16

  9:28 P.M.

  Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade stretches north and south for three blocks between Wilshire Boulevard and Broadway. A scant quarter mile from the Pacific Ocean, the pedestrian-only mall is a daytime mélange of restaurants, retail shopping, show business office space, and movie theaters. But at night, the concrete stretch transforms into a carny-like midway of street performers, teenage clubbers, and enough neon to set the moist evening air into a rainbow of primary glow.

  The Christmas and Chanukah lights were the icing on an already frosty cake.

  Lucky dropped Andrew off with a stack of the HAVE YOU SEEN ME? flyers at the southernmost end, promising to circle back and park three blocks to the north. They would work toward each other and eventually meet in the middle.

  The air was getting wetter and sticking to Lucky’s ream of flyers. All the better, he thought. All those cheap copy pages dropped and left behind would stick to the sidewalk like papier maché. As Lucky began to wonder how long before his disposable cell phone would begin to stack up with cranks and false leads, it vibrated in his pocket. After last night’s conga-line of wasted calls, he had half-a-mind to shuttle all immediate dialers to voicemail and filter through them later. Only the 213 prefixed number in the caller ID box was familiar.