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

by Doug Richardson

  Herm didn’t think of himself as a murderer. Sure, he’d killed before. But mostly in the bad old days of too much testosterone and too little sense. A rival once met his end. As did a backstreet thief who had failed to estimate Herm’s quickness when he had been a lanky pimp. Herm ended the fight when he took the knife-wielding robber to the ground and snapped his surprisingly weak neck, proving four years of high school wrestling wasn’t for naught. There was also one of his working girls. She had kept OD’ing so it was only a matter of time before she killed herself. Herm had only helped her along by fixing one of her needles with a lethal cocktail of heroin and the pain sedative, fentanyl.

  Not one of his killings could be described as fulfilling. In fact, each had come with measurable regret. Like the way a business was forced to write off failed investments. And that included the poor sap who had stepped in front of his speeding Ford Edge just forty-eight hours before. A significant part of Herm’s business plan was making his AA meetings. If someone or something got in his way, well, the folks in the military would call that collateral damage. The price that came from the business of war.

  The accident victim had paid the price of Herm being Herm.

  But that asshole photographer was different. Not that he wasn’t business. For sure, Herm would write him off as an expense. It’s just that he felt zero regrets. Herm would later wonder if it was due to the kind of man Gabe was, the personal affront that was the actual indiscretion, or merely the basic human pleasure that was returned from the musical pitch of that honey of a chainsaw. Having never operated an actual, gas-operated zombie killer before, Herm found the weight of the machine intuitive and the intense vibrations it delivered exciting all the way down to his loins.

  Yes, he surmised. It was like good sex.

  After Gabe had given up all the relevant information regarding Missy Strawberry Blonde, the rest could have been described as puerile pleasure.

  Too damn bad recess had to end.

  Herm wrapped the individual body parts in the plastic sheeting, only noticing afterward that he’d painted well beyond the lines. The concrete floor had been misted over with a fine pink hue for maybe fifty feet in most directions. Thank goodness for the three-dollar disposable poncho Herm kept in the SUV’s wheel well in case of emergencies. When the photographer’s remains were stuffed into three separate Hefty bags, Herm weighted each with a decorative masonry block shaped in a cube pattern reminiscent of something Franklin Lloyd Wright would have liked.

  Born an artist. Died an artist.

  Herm chuckled at his own twisted thought, slammed the hatch of his SUV shut and climbed into the driver’s seat. The digital clock on the dash read 3:38. Right on schedule. Just enough time to sink the body remains into the oft-ignored Monteria Lake in Chatsworth and make his big meeting.

  Finally, it appeared things were working out for Herm.

  48

  For twenty-one snaking miles, Mulholland Drive is a two-lane ribbon of blacktop loosely strung across various ridgelines of the Santa Monica Mountains. Though made famous in Hollywood films and TV shows, the mountaintop road is primarily known by locals as the dangerously winding stretch which separates the Basin from its less popular sibling, the San Fernando Valley.

  On most days, Lucky would find himself preferring to traverse Mulholland over some of the more efficient motorways. In a town that was always in a hurry, a cruise along Mulholland was akin to a vacation from the myopia that came from living in ground level traffic. The views were usually spectacular. As were some of the properties owned by so many of Los Angeles’ overlords.

  The rains, which had temporarily abated, left the air clean with visibility that went for miles on end. Yet the picturesque quality of the moment appeared entirely lost on Andrew. He preferred to speechify from the backseat.

  Cherry Pie thought the man was having a nervous breakdown.

  “Seriously,” droned Andrew. “It had to be the parties. When you were thirteen, did you go to parties?”

  Cherry glanced leftward at Lucky—as if asking whether she should answer Andrew’s question or not. The roughed-up dad had practically been on a stream-of-consciousness rant since consuming what was left of his meatball sub.

  “I said no to the parties. Flat out no way,” continued Andrew. “She’s just thirteen, right? It’s not like these are birthday parties anymore. But my GD wife. Was a pushover from day one. Day one! Whatever Karrie wanted. Can’t deny our baby Karrie. Oh no. She might not love us when we’re older.”

  Andrew drew in a calming breath. But his brain switched back into rant mode.

  “But these parties. They were party parties. Big house. Parents that are away. It’s always like that. Path of least resistance. Parents that go away and leave their homes to their kids are asking for it. Kids are instinctive. Know when there’s no supervision. So that’s where the parties are. And that’s what kind of parties they are.”

  “I didn’t get invited to those kinds of parties,” offered Cherry.

  “Well my Karrie did and I said no,” argued Andrew. “Her mother? What didn’t she say yes to? Yes yes yes yes yes yes. So dad says no. Mom says yes. That, we know, turns into I hate dad. I don’t wanna be around dad. I don’t wanna be in the same area code as my dad.”

  “Teenagers are complicated,” defended Cherry.

  “What kind of parent lets their thirteen-year-old baby girl go to parties with Jesus knows what goin’ on? Go ahead. Say it. A lousy GD parent. Which translated means her lousy crappy permissive mother who, when she’s not letting her one and only daughter smoke whatever or screw whatever, fills her with poison about her one and only father.”

  Lucky thought Andrew sounded drunk. Pain drugs, he surmised. No doubt he was given a handful of edge-easing parting gifts from the Cedars-Sinai pharmacy. The lizard part of Lucky’s brain wondered what kind of drugs. Brand? Chemical functionality? It filled his mouth with saliva and made his back molars grind.

  “You’re a good father,” Cherry tried to save.

  “Bullshit,” insisted Andrew, most likely as a way to beg for more compliments.

  “Look how far you’ve come,” argued Cherry. “What you’ve done. What you’re doing for her.”

  “Don’t see her mother here, do you?” argued Andrew.

  “That’s right,” agreed Cherry. “I’ll bet when she sees you she runs right into your arms. Cries even. I sure would.”

  Lucky was impressed. Cherry had somehow steered the conversation away from Andrew pissing on about what an awful chore parenthood was and converted it into an ego-building exercise. She was turned in the seat, peeking around the headrest. Coyly. Like a stripper working a lap dance for tips.

  Lucky found himself stealing looks. He was terribly entertained by Cherry’s show. He noted how her teasing upper lip would slide back into a comforting half-smile. Mature as hell for someone just twenty-two. Her customer, the broken dad in the backseat, allowed her cooing voice of reason to blow some much-needed air into his weakened chest. The amazing power of belief. Cherry was infusing Andrew with her confidence. And a man who believes in himself, or his manhood, is warm clay. A potential customer ripe for the plucking. Rainmakers, the strippers called them. With ego and coin enough to order thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and slip Benjamin after Benjamin into a girl’s sequined G-string.

  Lucky reminded himself of the package. In the footwell right behind Cherry rested a FedEx envelope clamped with a binder clip. Stuffed inside were five, ten-thousand-dollar stacks of green, courtesy of the Bank of Conrad Ellis. Lucky was wondering if there would be any cash leftover. And if sweet Cherry Pie was working Andrew in hopes of receiving the biggest tip of her life.

  Herm had demanded they meet in a public space, choosing—strangely enough—the sporting goods aisle inside the Van Nuys Costco. Only after agreeing to a time and place did Lucky recall that an ID card was required to enter the big box retailer. As it turned out, neither he nor Andrew were members. Around the time Andrew
was calling American Express to see if his Platinum Card might extend them entry privileges, Cherry produced her very own membership card.

  “One of the perks for workin’ at The Rabbit Pole,” smirked Cherry. “Don’t ask me why. Not like I’m buyin’ Velcro bras in bulk.”

  After six miles of traversing west along Mulholland, Lucky steered the Crown Vic north and downhill through a hillside residential enclave known as Woodcliff Estates. The single-story homes were all modest, built mostly in the sixties, well-tended, and adorned more with expensive, European cars than Christmas decorations.

  Showbiz folks, thought Lucky.

  Lucky pushed on the gas, instinctively wanting to get out of there and get on with the plan. It was a quick swivel onto Ventura then up Sepulveda Boulevard into Van Nuys. In minutes, they were cruising the acres of parking at Costco for an available space.

  “I’m carrying the money,” announced Andrew.

  “Remember,” said Lucky. “We’re paying him for information. Not your daughter.”

  “My money,” moaned Andrew. “And I’ll know if he’s telling the truth or not. If it leads to my little girl. Might be some left over for you and Stripper Girl.”

  “‘Stripper Girl,’” grinned Cherry. “Like that. Kinda like a superhero in stilettos. Do I get to wear a cape?”

  Inside the warehouse store were miles of bulk retail, stacked high and dry on industrial racks. The canned Christmas tunes warbled off the concrete floors and walls into an indecipherable musical mush. And the damn crowds. It was Friday, yet the building seemed as gagged by bodies as a supermarket on Thanksgiving eve.

  Cherry led the way to the sports and fitness aisle, leading the trio down along a wall passage alongside pallets laden with fifty-pound bags of discounted dog food.

  “My favorite aisle,” Cherry pointed out as she moved beyond the housewares.

  Delightful, laughed Lucky to himself. Underneath the tattoos, purple hair, and that teacup body, Miss Cherry Pie was a wannabe Suzy Homemaker.

  The sports and fitness aisle was wide yet jammed with product from bicycles to backpacking equipment to the newest elliptical trainers. Christmas shoppers browsed but compared to some of the other causeways in the warehouse, there appeared to be some breathing room.

  “Now what?” Andrew impatiently bounced.

  “We wait,” replied Lucky with a glance to his watch. He spun slowly until he spotted a security camera mounted on the ceiling. From there he could follow the looping cabling which linked other cameras, one dedicated for each aisle. Herm most likely knew as much in advance. He had set the meeting, the time, and place, and that spoke volumes about the kind of control he needed to exert. He wasn’t scared of the police, otherwise he wouldn’t have chosen a locale where authorities could so easily blend in. That in itself confirmed he had nothing more than information to exchange.

  Then again, the meeting itself could just be part of a con. And Herm could have nothing substantive to offer but hope and bullshit.

  “How long do we wait?” asked Andrew.

  “We’ll know that when it happens,” said Lucky. He tapped on Cherry’s shoulder blade. “You did good. But you don’t have to be here.”

  “But I’m the only one he knows,” said Cherry.

  “Not about you anymore,” said Lucky, hushed. “About dad over there and what’s in the envelope.”

  “Kinda need to stay,” explained Cherry with a shrug. “I wanna find her too.”

  “Alright,” ceded Lucky. “Just keep to the background. Don’t talk.”

  Cherry, arms folded, retreated to a random post in front of cartons of tennis balls. She exchanged nods with Lucky, inhaled heavily. She was clearly involved. Nervous. And uncertain about the outcome.

  “Any time now,” sing-songed Andrew.

  Exactly, spoke Lucky to himself. Anytime.

  49

  Herm had arrived early. Parked in the far, northeastern corner of the lot, he had grabbed an oversized cart, flashed his membership card to the pimpled employee working the door—and simply shopped. Mostly for groceries. Because that’s what Herman Bland did every week. Along with Home Depot, Costco was one of Herm’s post-sobriety discoveries. He especially enjoyed Saturdays when end-caps of nearly every food aisle were manned by sales clerks hawking all matter of tasting tidbits. Food pimps, he called them. And because there was so much free chow to graze, he didn’t even mind when it seemed like the entirety of a living ancestral tree would clog the main drags. As if weekend marketing qualified as a family getaway.

  Once Herm had filled his cart, he continued to stroll as if he was still seeking one last item. All along, though, he kept his activity to three food aisles, the center one being directly opposite the sporting goods aisle on the other side of the warehouse. Between was the clothing section, most of which was spread out on tables, making it rather easy for a tall man such as Herm to peer over other shoppers with minimal visual obstruction.

  Despite his bulging cart, it was on Herm’s tenth or so trip down the cereal aisle that the double-box deal on Special K became too much to resist. He’d only just found a place to rest it in the cart when, by rote almost, he’d given another glance across the store. His first read was a glimpse of Cherry Pie’s purple hair. Nearly instantly, Herm picked out Lucky’s features, easily recalling him from those two quick encounters at The Casting Place. The unknown was the third man. Average, red-haired, abnormally pale and hugging what appeared to be an overnight envelope.

  The unicorn’s daddy.

  The man with the package appeared as unremarkable as his daughter was remarkable. Proof that in some families good looks skip a generation or two. Herm would have to reserve judgment until he saw evidence of what the mother looked like.

  Next, Herm shopped a loose but ever-constricting noose around the trio, his every sense sniffing for any kind of police presence. He detected none. In fact, it appeared ninety percent of the men there were short, ethnic and possibly possessing their own wants and warrants for arrest. No, surmised Herm. Cherry and her two men had come unaccompanied and without an ulterior agenda. There was money to be exchanged for information. Nothing more.

  The big man entered the sporting goods aisle from the south, nearest Cherry and steering the laden shopping cart as if it were a natural barrier.

  Cherry unconsciously chirped her surprise.

  “Once again,” said Herm. “It’s just you but noooo blondie.”

  Lucky spun toward the encounter, shortening the distance between himself and Herm by three quick steps.

  “Close enough,” warned Herm, swiveling the shopping cart. Herm’s eyes shot a look at Andrew. “You the daddy?”

  Andrew nodded and started to speak at the same time. But nerves grabbed his words somewhere at the back of his throat, causing a spasm of coughing.

  “Sorry, yes,” Andrew finally choked out.

  “She looks nothin’ like you,” said Herm.

  “Where’s my daughter?” forced Andrew.

  “Never said I knew a thing,” defended Herm, his hands casually held out, palms facing the ceiling. “Just know who’s got her.”

  “How would that be?” asked Lucky.

  “Because I know the young man who grabbed her,” said Herm. “Photographer. Beard. Asshole named Gabe.” He gave a knowing look at Cherry as if it was her role to rubber stamp what he said.

  Cherry nodded at Lucky.

  “And what’d Gabe do with her?” pressed Lucky.

  “Sold her to the Armenians,” said Herm. “Not what I woulda done. But they paid.”

  “Armenians?” quizzed Andrew. “What’s that mean?”

  “Organized crime racket,” monotoned Lucky. “Trafficking, right?”

  “Stole her for peanuts,” added Herm. “Tragedy.”

  “So that’s what you got?” asked Lucky. “Just some bullshit story?”

  “I got more,” aimed Herm. “You got the cash?”

  Andrew held up the FedEx envelope.

&nb
sp; “Lemme see?” said Herm, hand reaching out.

  The nervous father merely unhinged the clip and tilted the envelope so Herm could see the cash. One of the bound ten-thousand-dollar stacks spilled out and onto the polished concrete. Andrew scrambled down to the floor to snatch it up.

  “It’s for real,” said Lucky. “Just need to know what you know.”

  “Like I said, grabbed and sold to the Armenians.” From his pocket, Herm produced Gabe’s cell phone. He wedged it betwixt two extra large bags of frozen mixed vegetables, then gave the shopping cart a push toward Lucky. “Name you’re looking for is Jake. Everything you need to know is on the phone.”

  Lucky’s first instinct was that the phone was a mere prop in a con—the magic item that possessed secrets worth paying for. It was a ruse as old as civilization. But as Lucky braked the cart and reached for the phone, his eyes tilted to Herm’s pink tennis shoes—an odd color on a debonair man who looked stylish wearing just Dockers and a black t-shirt. Lucky brought his attention back to the phone and, while scrolling the contacts for “Jake,” couldn’t help but sneak glances back to Herm’s pink sneaks.

  Only the sneakers weren’t pink.

  They were white, spattered with a fine coating of red. Most might have suspected paint. Only Lucky the Lennox cop had seen way too many gangbangers in white sneakers accidentally colored by blood. As if bloody footwear was the one item a killer would forget to double-check.

  “So how do I know this is the guy?” asked Lucky. He’d found “Jake” in the contacts list. He showed Herm the phone. “Just a name and a number. Could be anybody.”

  “Believe me it’s not,” smirked Herm. “Straight from the asshole’s mouth.”

  “How about this? I talk to the asshole,” said Lucky. “Just to cover my bases.”

  “Assumes the asshole can talk to you,” replied Herm with the same satisfied smirk. “But sadly he can’t.”

  “Pay him,” Lucky said to Andrew.

  “What?” shot Andrew.

  “I said give him the package,” demanded Lucky.