by Jacob Stone
“Nat doesn’t work Fridays, so the little guy’s keeping her company. You’re looking good. Babysitting the Hollywood elite seems to suit you.”
He hadn’t seen Bogle since his investigator had left MBI two months ago, and the change seemed to have done him a world of good. The heaviness that had been weighing Bogle down since he was shot in the chest was gone. But there were other changes, too. He looked more fit, more tan. When a smile cracked Bogle’s face, Morris caught a familiar glint in his eyes, one that he hadn’t seen since that fateful day.
“I do more than just fix problems for spoiled brat actors,” Bogle said. “That’s part of it, of course. Some of it’s pretty heavy lifting. For example, I had to deal with a nasty piece of blackmail just last week. But the studio has standard investigation work also, like intellectual property theft and employee background checks. Anyway, going to Starlight Pictures has been a good change. Thanks again for helping me get the job.”
“I was happy to do so, even though I hated to see you leave MBI. But who am I to stand in the way of progress? Charlie, I’m glad you could make it tonight, especially on such short notice. I hope I didn’t make you cancel a date with a hot actress.”
Morris said that half-jokingly. Bogle was good-looking in a tough guy sort of way and had a reputation for dating around, which finally caught up to him a year ago when his wife divorced him. Now that he was head of security at Starlight Pictures, Morris had no doubt his former investigator was juggling a bevy of gorgeous starlets.
Bogle half closed his eyelids. “I didn’t have to cancel anything,” he said. “Those days are long gone. Jenny and I are talking, and things are getting better between us. She might even give me another chance. We’ll see.” The glint that had shone in his eyes dimmed. “I never told you or anyone else this, but when I almost died six months ago I didn’t see a bright light or a tunnel or anything else. It was like a light switch being turned off, and there was only nothing until the doctors brought me back.” He lifted his beer and took just enough of a sip to wet his lips. “It made me think long and hard about what’s important in life, and for me it’s being back with Jenny and having a family again. But enough of such maudlin talk. I’m surprised I haven’t read anything in the papers yet about you putting a bullet in Polk’s ass. I was sure without me there as a buffer you would’ve done that by now.”
Morris chuckled. “It’s been tempting,” he admitted.
A waitress came over to take his order. He gave Bogle a questioning look and asked if he wanted wings. Bogle gave him a what-do-you-think look back, and Morris told the waitress to bring him a Guinness draft, another beer for Bogle, and a large order of wings with hot sauce. Once the waitress left, Bogle asked how things were at MBI.
“Busy,” Morris said. “One of the big insurance companies has been giving us their tougher fraud cases, and that’s now making up over half our business.”
“No more serial killer cases, huh?”
“Not yet. But that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. Back in 2001 you were working on the organized crime task force, right?”
Bogle picked up his beer, peered at what was left in the glass, and drained it. “Morris, you’ve got a good memory. But yeah, after I was promoted to detective in 2000, I was assigned to Vice and worked on the OC task force until I joined you at Homicide and Robbery in 2005. Why?”
Morris dug into the briefcase he had brought with him and pulled out the two police sketches he had of the Nightmare Man. He showed Bogle the first drawing and explained that it was how a witness had described the suspect back in 1984.
“I was fifteen back then,” Bogle said.
“I know. I was fourteen. But here’s a drawing of the same perp showing how he might’ve looked in 2001. Any thoughts?”
Morris handed him the second drawing. Bogle studied it for a solid minute before handing it back.
“In 2001 I was trying to crack a smuggling ring at the docks, and this joker could be any one of a dozen low-level mob guys I encountered. The first drawing you showed me—the one where your perp’s in his forties—that one looked more familiar, but I can’t think of why.”
“They’re both of the Nightmare Man.”
Bogle made a face, as if he couldn’t believe he didn’t recognize the drawings. “I remember them now. Both when I was a teenager and later when I was on the force. You think that psycho was working for the mob?”
“It was a theory my dad had. He worked the 1984 killings.”
Bogle lazily scratched his neck. “I never knew that. Small world, huh, what with you working the 2001 murders. Did you find a mob connection then?”
The waitress returned with the beers and wings. Morris waited patiently as she deposited them on the table. After she left, he took a long drink of his Guinness.
“I was blocked,” he said. “I was new to Homicide, and the senior detective they partnered me with was none other than Martin Hadley. He didn’t see any merit in that line of investigation.”
“Good old Hadley was always a political animal. Since the idea was yours, he wouldn’t want to give it a chance of paying off and seeing you outshine him.”
“That might’ve been part of it, but I think it was more vindictiveness on his part. Martin knew it was my dad’s idea, and he was still harboring a grudge against my dad for back in the day royally reaming him out in front of the precinct over one of his stupider blunders.”
Bogle snorted out an angry laugh. “I’d pay a month’s rent to be able to go back in time and have a front row seat for that.” He picked up a wing and chewed it slowly, an eyebrow raised as he studied Morris. “Why worry about this Nightmare Man business now?”
Morris took another long drink. He lowered the half-filled glass back to the table, fixed his eyes on it, and began rolling it between his hands, somehow keeping the stout from sloshing out. Keeping his voice low, he explained why the number seventeen meant something significant to the killer. He further explained that Tuesday would be the seventeen-year anniversary of the start of the Nightmare Man’s 2001 killing spree, just as the first spree back in 1984 had also started on October second.
“And you think this guy is waiting to start killing again? Even if this psycho is still alive, he’s got to be in his eighties by now.”
“People are running marathons in their eighties these days.”
“Yeah, but this is different. Has there ever been an active serial killer that old?”
“I don’t know. But this guy is a special kind of sickness, and he well earned the name he was given. I wouldn’t put it past him to keep killing as long as he can draw breath into his body.”
“This is all based on a gut feeling and nothing else?”
“That’s all,” he admitted.
Bogle sat back in the booth and tugged on his lower lip as he mulled this over. He had known Morris long enough to know that a person could go broke betting against his friend’s gut feelings.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I tried calling Hadley, and it went as well as you could probably guess. Namely, he threatened to pull MBI’s license if I went public with my concerns, or even if he found out I was doing anything private with them. But the hell with him. I’m going to do what I should’ve done seventeen years ago, which is dig into the mob angle.” He placed both police sketches flat on the table so they faced Bogle. “Can you think of someone connected back in 2001 who’d know if this guy was a mob hitman?”
“That’s an easy one. It would be the same guy you’d search out today.”
“Big Joe Penza?”
“He’d be the guy. He took over for his old man around the time I joined the OC task force, and he would’ve been intimate with all the players. He would’ve known them all back in 1984 also.”
Morris’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “I guess I’ll be looking to ha
ve a chat with Big Joe Penza.”
Chapter 10
“Dapper Vince” Scalise sucked on his Cohiba Esplendidos, blew a smoke ring from his mouth, and watched absently as the bluish-gray smoke dissipated into the air-conditioned room. The actor Ben Chandler was also smoking a Cohiba, both men lighting up after their steak dinners. Chandler was holding his cigar between the index and middle fingers on his left hand so he could use his right to pick up the twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch that went for eighty dollars a glass.
The city of Los Angeles prohibited smoking inside a restaurant, so even though Scalise and Chandler were in a private room at Palace 21 they were still violating the no-smoking ordinance. But that didn’t matter. No employee wanting to keep his teeth was going to tell Scalise to put out a cigar, and even if the waitstaff serving them hadn’t recognized the danger Scalise represented, they were too starstruck by Chandler to complain about what the two men were doing.
“Cigar’s not bad,” Scalise noted, hamming it up as if he were actually a connoisseur of expensive cigars. Every blue moon Joe Penza would hand some out from his private stash, and occasionally Scalise would take one off a mark, but usually he smoked more moderately priced cigars. “Nice flavor. Good burn. Not the best I ever had, though. That would be an Opus X. Ever try one of those?”
“I haven’t, but next time we get together I’ll make sure I have a box of them.” Chandler’s face was lit up brighter than any kid who ever raced down the stairs to open Christmas presents. “Vincent, I can’t thank you enough for seeing me. It’s going to be a huge help.”
Scalise raised an eyebrow. “Just because you buy me dinner, a few drinks, and a cigar you think we’re on a first-name basis?”
Chandler stiffened. “My mistake. I meant Mr. Scalise.”
A smile cracked the gangster’s face. “You should see the way you look right now, like you’re about to keel over. Benny, you need to learn how to take a joke. Damn right we’re on a first-name basis. But I gotta tell you, it’s getting tiring hearing you thank me all night.”
Some pink peppered Chandler’s cheeks as he recovered from his scare. “Still, it means a lot to me,” he said.
Scalise leaned back in his chair. He was the picture of nonchalance as he blew out another smoke ring and sipped his scotch. Expensive scotch was something he knew well. A handful of downtown restaurant owners were on his collection list. These guys were degenerate gamblers and in deep to Penza, and whenever they came up short, Scalise, in exchange for giving them an extra week and not breaking their arms, would confiscate a bottle or two of their best single malts from the bar, while his former partner “Irish” Colgan would get a steak dinner packed up to go, his price for letting the owner keep his teeth.
“What else was I going to do?” he asked. “I’ve known Billy Dunn since forever. If he’s going to ask me to do this favor for you, then that’s what I’m going to do.” His eyes dulled as he puffed out more cigar smoke. “I should’ve called you three weeks ago when Billy first asked, but I got busy. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize. I know you’re getting sick of me thanking you, so I’ll just say it one last time. I can’t possibly tell you how thrilled I was when I got your call today.”
The thin smile Scalise showed wasn’t much different than a cold-blooded reptile’s. He winked to show what he was about to say was bull. “I don’t know why you think hanging out with me is going to help you with that movie role. You got the wrong idea about what I do, ’cause I’m nothing more than an average schmo working a job. Whoever told you I’m connected with the mob is nuts.”
Chandler didn’t need the wink to know that Vincent Scalise was an important player in Big Joe Penza’s organization. From what he’d been told, Scalise did everything from breaking legs to robbing banks.
“Sure, but I heard you know people,” Chandler said, being as diplomatic as he could about it.
Another wink from Scalise. “I know some big talkers. Nothing more than knockaround guys who think they’re bigshots. These clowns tell a good story, but that’s all it is—a story. You’ll meet some of them at the poker game later tonight.”
A wind chime noise sounded. Scalise wrestled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and squinted at a new text message. “We got to wrap up this party. There’s an errand I need to do. Afterward I’ll take you to that poker game I’ve been telling you about.”
Scalise drained what was left in his glass, and Chandler did the same. The two men walked out of the private room with cigars in hand. They collected dirty looks as they walked through the main dining room, but even if people didn’t know who Scalise was, they were still smart enough not to say anything to him.
Chapter 11
Van Nuys, October 8, 2001
Cynthia Leary lay naked on her back, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, with a pair of socks stuffed in her mouth to keep her from yelling for help. He sat down next to her and touched her cheek and felt the coolness of the skin. His hand moved down her body, and she shuddered when he let his fingers linger on her left nipple. It was rock hard. Could she possibly be aroused right now? He had to find out the answer to that! He reached down and felt that she was as dry as sandpaper. No, it wasn’t sexual arousal that made her nipples so hard, but fear. That was good. He so much preferred fear.
He didn’t want to get any blood on his clothing so he stood up and removed his shirt and pants. Being a gentleman, he asked her if she’d mind if he took off his underwear, and since she didn’t tell him not to, he stripped off his briefs. It was no surprise that his penis stood erect and was far harder than her nipples. More than that, it was throbbing. You couldn’t blame him for being excited. It had been excruciating waiting all these years to begin the Nightmare Man’s new killing spree. When he took the first victim five days ago he was like a teenage boy having sex for the first time, rushing through it so fast that he barely had time to enjoy the experience. The same wasn’t going to be true tonight. He would use a slow hand with Cynthia and make sure to squeeze every drop of pain out of her. Just thinking of that brought him close to climaxing. He excused himself and used her bathroom to take care of the matter at hand, flushing away any potential DNA evidence.
When he returned to her cramped bedroom, he apologized for his absence and then emptied the contents of the gym bag he had brought, lining up each item on the bed alongside her. He made sure to put the metal cage holding the rat right next to her head. The rat inside was oh-so-hungry. Angry, also. He felt his heart flutter as he saw how liquid with fear her eyes had become.
Cynthia Leary. Twenty-seven. A hopeful actress working as a waitress. Her small one-bedroom Van Nuys apartment was what a Realtor might generously call cozy, at least if the Realtor was a big enough liar. The bedroom was smaller than most jail cells and could barely fit her single bed. Well, that would just make tonight all that more intimate.
There was enough ambient light in the room to see her long, skinny body. He doubted she’d had a good meal in years, and not just so she could pay rent for this dump, but more because she hoped to be famous someday. All that scrimping and saving and starving herself to chase after her dream, and this was what it came down to. How terribly sad.
He bent over so he could whisper in her ear.
“You’ll be famous,” he promised her. “Everybody will soon be talking about you. They’ll be showing your picture on TV and in the newspapers. After they find you, of course.”
He had to add that last caveat. It had been five days since he took this spree’s first victim, and still no mention about it on the news. Eventually that would change, but it had annoyed him to no end. He was so looking forward to seeing the fear that these murders would be causing. That was half the fun, after all.
He picked up the needle-nose pliers he’d brought, climbed on top of her so that he straddled her, and took his time pulling off her fingernails. He made sure to wo
rk even slower later, and he made a conscious effort to liberally use the smelling salts he’d brought.
This was the way it was meant to be. After all these years, he finally discovered his true self.
Finally. Finally.
Chapter 12
Los Angeles, the present
Lori Fletcher lay curled on the couch watching one of the recent Furious movies and fighting to keep her eyelids open. She shouldn’t have been struggling so hard to stay awake. It wasn’t that late, and all the noise and action and Vin Diesel’s biceps should’ve been enough to keep her from drifting off. But it had been an emotionally wrought few weeks—really a rollercoaster swinging her from the depths of despair as she was convinced that an unknown boogeyman was going to get her, to feeling safe after she adopted Lucky. While she might’ve been sleeping soundly once that big galoot came into her life, she also had to make up for many troubled nights before that. Exhaustion overtook her. The last snippet of the movie she remembered were cars being airdropped into the Caucasus Mountains, and then the world faded on her.
The next thing she was aware of was a hellacious racket, something much louder than the Furious movie still playing on the TV. In her semi-conscious state, all she could think was that a wild beast had gotten into her apartment. As she became more awake she realized the noise was coming from Lucky. She nearly fell off the couch as she stumbled to the source of the noise, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest.
Sure enough, Lucky barked with such violence that he was nearly frothing at the mouth, hackles raised along his spine. For all the good it would do, since the dog outweighed her and was powerful enough to drag her wherever he wanted to go, Lori clicked the leash onto his collar and swung the door open. He is out there and Lucky will tear his throat out! But there was no one in the hallway other than Mrs. Granauche from two doors down, who had stepped out of her apartment and was giving her a sour, accusatory look. Lori had convinced herself that when her boogeyman came he would bring a stench of death with him, but there was nothing other than a jasmine scent that must’ve come from Janice Howell, who lived in the neighboring apartment.