by Nick Keller
“He beat you to the same hunch?”
“Looks that way.”
“Kid’s smart,” Bernie said, tipping his glass at him and sipping.
“That he is.”
Bernie started fingering the corner of a cloth napkin, thinking. “Will,” he said, his voice quietening, taking a serious tone. “You think he’s dangerous?”
William’s lips thinned, tightened. It was a good question. Jacky didn’t seem dangerous. He didn’t have the personality for it. But he was genius enough to break into law enforcement programs, hijack security applications, jump in and out of data systems, through firewalls. Given the wrong constitution, people like Jacky were mastermind terrorists—the kind Hollywood loved to make movies about. But Jacky? “Mmm—my hunch tells me no. But I do think he’s too smart for his own good.”
“Gonna get him in trouble one day,” Bernie said, draining his Jack double.
“Something tells me he’s already in over his head.” William looked out, searching for the girls. They’d moved off down the pier. He couldn’t see them.
“What do we do?” Bernie said.
William looked back. “Maybe we can use him. There are other names of other victims. Maybe he can help find them.”
“Can you contact him?”
William nodded vaguely. “There might be a way.”
“I’ll leave that to you. As for us—we got a cold killer out there, pal.” Now Bernie’s eyes also went out to the pier as if searching for their women.
William agreed, “Yes we do. And he has a method. It’s calculated. He’s patient. He waits. To him, killing these women is a joy. To him, it’s a sweet thing to kill.”
Bernie looked at him uncomfortable. William always spoke about killers with such deep admiration. He wondered if William was even remotely aware of it, or if it was a piece of his programmed nature, something without reference. “What’s he wait for?” Bernie said.
“That’s the part of the pattern I haven’t discovered yet.”
Bernie started fingering the napkin again, pinching and tugging on it. “Why’s he doing this, Will?”
“These killings, Bernie—they’re too careful to be driven by some emotion. Rage, anger, even hate. This guy, he isn’t impulsive like that. He’s careful, even patient. It’s almost as if…” his words stopped, his mouth hung half open, a thought occurring to him.
“What?” Bernie said.
“Friedrich Nietzsche.”
“Huh?”
“Friedrich Nietzsche. He once said, ‘It is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it.’ What could be more patient or more sweet than the dish best served cold?”
Bernie shook his head. “Fuck you talking about?”
William locked eyes with him as if he’d solved an impossible puzzle and said, “This is revenge. It’s a vendetta, Bernie.”
“IT’S QUIET OUT HERE. It’s peaceful.” Iva blew a breath of smoke out over the pier railing as they walked along.
“I love the darkness,” Ruthi said.
“Not a sunshine girl?” Iva said.
“L.A.’s full of sunshine.”
“You like Willy, don’t you? I can tell these things.”
Ruthi tilted her head. “I haven’t been with a man in, well…” Her words trailed off.
“Is it because you’re a spermologist?”
The word made Ruthi chuckle. “I understand their sperm. Just don’t understand them.”
“You and me both, girl,” Iva said, taking another drag, shaking her head.
Ruthi gave her a curious look. Iva was beautiful. She could even be elegant when the situation called. “Seems like you know men pretty well to me,” Ruthi said
“Well—I can act like it when I have to.”
“Can I ask…”
“What?”
“Have you been with many men?”
Iva hesitated. Apparently, William hadn’t had the Iva’s-a-former-escort talk with her. “I’ve been with a number, sure. But—I don’t know. They were all shit.”
“Why Bernie?”
Iva took a drag. “What do you mean?”
“It seems like you’ve been together for a long time.”
“Heh—we’re learning.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, honey, it never stops. But Bernie, yeah, he’s a big dumb lug, but, I don’t know, he’s different.”
“How did you know Bernie was, you know…”
“The one?”
“Yeah.”
Iva burst into laughter. It was cynical but seasoned. “That don’t exist, honey. It ain’t about the one end-all, be-all man. It’s about the one that gives the biggest shit. That’s all it is.”
“And that’s Bernie?”
Iva looked at her. Ruthi was a head shorter. She bumped shoulders with her as they walked, finally said, “Yeah, my Bernie gives a really big shit about me.”
“Hmm,” Ruthi cooed. A moment of silence passed, and she said, “William’s the one, I think.”
“Well, you’re still learning, too.”
“Maybe.”
“So, why do you think that way about Willy-boy?”
Ruthi struggled with the question momentarily, then said matter-of-factly, “We’re exactly the same person.”
That made Iva squint, thinking on Ruthi’s words.
“Excuse me,” called a new voice from behind. They both stopped and turned. A woman approached them wearing a hooded cowl over a gorgeous, flowing dinner dress, the ocean breeze starting to pick up a bit. “Any of you have a lighter? Mine just bit it.”
“Sure thing, hon,” Iva said and pulled Bernie’s Zippo up. It gave a metal clink and a flame sparked.
“Oh, you’re a doll,” the girl said, leaning over to light her smoke.
The flame illuminated her face in a bloody orange light and Iva almost jerked back. “I know you,” she said.
The girl took her first inhale and blew it out, moaning with ecstasy. She said, “Yeah—I get that a lot.”
“You’re that actress.”
She flipped the hood off her head revealing moneyed skin with dazzling eyes and cultured features. “If I were a snide asshole, I’d say which one? But, I try not to be a snide asshole.”
“Oh honey, it don’t bother me,” Iva said. “If I was a snide asshole I’d say you play the best bitch in Hollywood. But I’m not a snide asshole, either.”
The girl laughed. Iva had referred to her dozen roles as the other woman, the evil bitch, the slinky lawyer, and the whatever else fell under the category of antagonistic, silver-screen vixen. “Thanks,” she said and took another drag.
Ruthi recognized her too, but words wouldn’t come. Hollywood had pigeonholed the actress in dozens of films as the bad girl. Ruthi found herself swooning, a bit star struck. She couldn’t remember the girl’s name, just that she was Hollywood’s next Demi Moore. A few years younger and, if she had to be honest, a few shades prettier.
The actress continued while looking at her cigarette, “It’s nice to meet a fellow smoker who isn’t afraid of being a fellow smoker.”
Iva responded, “I smoke to get through my day, you smoke to get through yours. The rest can go fuck themselves.”
The actress laughed out loud. “Thank you so much! But try telling your PR person that.”
“I wouldn’t know much about a PR person, but I could tell you all about PR.”
“So, is that what you do?”
Iva snuffled ironically. The conversation called for another smoke so she lit up and said, “Former escort, honey.”
The actress bugged her eyes out, impressed. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.” Iva took a drag.
“You don’t seem…” the actress’ words trailed off.
“What, ashamed?”
“Well.” She backed off unsure of her next words.
“You’re an actress,” Iva said. “It’s all the same, ain’t it?”
A slow grin crossed the woman’s face. �
�I guess you do know all about PR, then. Introductions—I’m Sara Hunter.” She held out her hand.
“Sara Hunter, right. From Bloody Moon and, uh—” Iva snapped her fingers and said, “the Die Again series.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Iva. This is Ruthi.”
Sara Hunter’s eyes went to Ruthi who hadn’t said a word. “It’s nice to meet both of you.”
Ruthi gave her a wide-eyed, tight-lipped smile.
Sara addressed Iva with a wave of her cig and said, “So, here’s a crazy idea, one that those aforementioned PR pricks wouldn’t stand for.” She took a drag as if pausing dramatically, and said, “What if I approached you in the near future about a role I’m considering?”
Iva made a single loud blurt—something like Ha! “Why would you do that?”
“For advice. I’m considering taking a role as a streetwalker-vixen type—kind of a Pretty Woman meets Laura Croft. Maybe I could use your experience. We’ll call you a Hollywood consultant, or something ridiculous and fancy like that. I mean, it would be unofficial. My union fuckheads would never allow it for real, but you know—screw ‘em. So, would you?”
Iva and Ruthi looked at each other, both making a why-the-hell-not look. Iva said, “Hell yeah. But I mean—I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Oh, please. I like picking my own staff. They know that.”
“Why me?”
“Because you strike me as a cast iron bitch, like me. I like that. I thought maybe we could meet for coffee at some point.”
“If that’s the case, I’m in. Just let me know when.”
“Excellent. And don’t worry, I won’t have my people call you. I’ll do that myself.” They gave each other a mutual smile, like sudden compatriots.
“So, what’s it like?” Ruthi said, cutting in.
They both looked at her. “What’s what like?” Sara asked.
“You know—being in movies.”
Sara made a desultory look and said, “Well, I gotta tell you, it’s not very peaceful. If they saw me sucking on one of these things,” she held up the cigarette between her fingers, “it’d be tabloid fodder about how Sara Hunter’s dying of cancer. It’s all bullshit.”
Ruthi stared at her, didn’t even blink. “What’s it really like?”
Sara seemed to backpedal for a second, looking at her with an impressed squint in her eyes. “Being in movies?” she said.
“Yes.”
A moment passed as Sara considered her new friend. She smiled big and warm and said, “I love your honesty. You don’t get much of that in this town. Okay—it’s a dream. It’s like living a dream.”
“Like living your role?” Ruthi whispered.
“Your role?” Sara Hunter said.
“Yeah,” Ruthi said. “Like knowing your role—your real role—and living it.”
Sara smiled big, enrapt by Ruthi and said, “Yeah, exactly like that.”
Ruthi shook her head, star struck, and whispered, “Fantastic.”
THE WAITER DROPPED the bill off in a metal tray, said, “Thank you, guys. Have a nice night.” He walked away.
Bernie and William both reached for their wallets, Bernie pulling his up first. “No, Will, this one’s on me.”
“That’s not necessary, Bernie. I can pay for…”
“Shut up,” he demanded sliding the tray over to himself. The wallet in his other hand flipped open dropping its contents onto the table—a few hundred-dollar bills, some crumpled receipts and a Better Letter Lotto Ticket. “Oh, goddammit,” Bernie muttered, pawing his money up off the table.
William barked a desperate noise and slammed a hand onto the small pile of contents making Bernie jerk back. “What—Jesus!”
William slowly brought the Better Letter Lotto Ticket up to his face turning table-cloth white. His eyes started to sparkle. That earlier look of neurotic, impulsive obsession washed over him. He whispered, “Two letters. Alternating in random sequence. Creating a pattern.” He looked at Bernie through eyes bleeding with calculation.
Bernie’s face drew into thought and he snatched the ticket reading it furiously. He looked at William. “What’s it mean?”
“No more variable field. The controlling set. This is how the killer discovers Q, Bernie. This is how he chooses his victims. This is why he waits.”
“The Better Letter Lotto?”
“Of course,” William said. He could feel himself turn cold, his skin begin to prickle like a Sonoma cactus. “Two letters are chosen at perfect random, once a week. That’s six hundred and—let me see… six hundred and seventy-six possible combinations. He waits for them to fall alphabetically. He might wait weeks, he might wait months before the next letter in the alphabet occurs randomly. In the meantime, his gratification grows the more it’s delayed. When the letters fall accordingly—only when they do—he kills.”
Bernie said, putting it together, “It could take years to go through the whole alphabet.” He looked down thinking about his Cold Case files. It made perfect sense. The first murder—A— went back to January, 2012. The killer was now on the ninth letter.
He glanced out toward the pier. The girls were in the distance coming toward them, emerging like ghosts in the night. It made him gasp. Several weeks ago, he’d been with Iva at her little hotel paradise. He’d left her crying and hoping she’d win from his Better Letter Lotto ticket. He remembered the radio announcer calling the letters H and D. It had made him chuckle thinking Hi-Def.
The women were getting closer, coming nearer. They were giggling.
Then Bernie’s blood chilled still thinking about that night only weeks ago. At that same moment, somewhere in the City of Angels, a killer had also heard the radio announce the letters H and D. But the killer wasn’t thinking Hi-Def. He was thinking something much more beautiful.
Bernie’s jaw dropped, eyes widened.
… Harlie Davison.
Fuck—William was right. It made Bernie grin. “We got him,” he sneered.
“When’s the next Better Letter Lotto announcement?” William said.
“It falls on Thursdays. Day after tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect. Then we’ll know…”
Bernie interjected, “We got the jump on him.”
“Right. What about the department, Bernie?”
Bernie’s face tightened. He finally asked, “Do we want them in on this? The FBI’s involved.”
William furled his brow, thinking. The police department would undermine their entire investigation. Once the FBI got ahold of their information, there was no telling how they’d use it. But still, this was a case breaker. Withholding it from them could backfire, terribly. William looked slowly up at Bernie and said, “I think we have to, Bernie.”
Bernie nodded. “Shit, you’re right. I’ll get to the station first thing in the morning and cover what we know with the captain. He’ll want to start up a task force.”
William agreed, “And Jacky—I’ll see if ...”
“Shh—” Bernie said as the girls entered the restaurant from the open pier area. “No more crazy-man routine, Will. The girls don’t need… hey, babe!”
Iva slid into her chair next to him. Ruthi took William’s hand as she sat down. Their walk had been a good one, it seemed, full of girl-talk. They were feeling sociable.
William and Bernie looked each other, both grinning secretively. They knew everything they needed to know to catch their man. Starlet Killer was sitting in their palms. It was just a matter of time. They were going to get that bastard.
33
AFTER
William got back to his pad just after eleven o’clock, pulling into the parking lot. His mood was high. It was from that successful-date-feeling, the one which gets stuck in the chest and makes your heart beat a little faster, makes you start looking forward to tomorrow mornings and phone calls. He found himself replaying bits of his conversation with Ruthi over and over in his head, giggling to himself at some parts, cringing
at others. He felt like a stupid kid, but it was a hopeful feeling. It was youthful.
He had to pause as he put the key in his door. Jesus, was this what love felt like—all young and worldly dumb? How did people survive this, he wondered.
Moving through the door he dropped his keys down on the side table and looked up at the vanity mirror next to the apartment door. He could see his place behind him. It was dim, empty. The place seemed bigger suddenly, and emptier than before, like a cave. For the first time, he felt alone. Flipping on the light and turning around he noticed the walls full of numbers. This was his neurosis. This was his sickness.
His other life flooded in, but it didn’t scare him now. He had all the answers he needed. All he had to do was wait for the Better Letter Lotto to be announced, every Thursday, listening for the next letter combination starting with I. Then he would know the entire formula. It was that simple. He and Bernie had filled in all the variables.
Q + S + T + Y = X
Another thought occurred. Ruthi. She already knew he was a medicated man, she’d already tasted a bitter lick of his madness. Christ, if she saw his place now, she’d run for the hills. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of lemon-scented oven degreaser and a rag and went to the wall. Taking one last look at his disease, he squirted the cleaner bottle until a wide swatch of cleaner began drooling down the walls taking Marks-A-Lot with it in greying rivulets. Then he scrubbed. It came off easier than he’d expected as he cleared away the writing in patches, restoring the wall to its original white.
When the numeric mural was depleted down to a few broken strings of thought-coded garble, his visitor buzzer sounded. He looked to the door surprised, just waiting. It buzzed again. Wiping his hands he left his unit stepping out into the admittance hallway. Whoever it was buzzed a third time.
“Bernie?” he whispered, taking the three steps down to the door. He opened it and felt his skin go cold. Through the barred security door, Ruthi stared up at him half grinning, half nervous. “Ruthi?”
“Is it too early for me to—uh, er—soon, I mean. Is it too soon for me to be here?” She tried to hide behind a cute, nervous giggle and failed.