Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  “I’ll do my best to sweet-talk Detective Walsh,” Morris promised.

  After he got off the phone, he did just that and ended up trading a trace on Benjamin Chandler’s credit cards for buying Annie drinks and food at her favorite watering hole at a date and time to be determined. Maybe he’d bring Marty Wright along and they could make it a party. Annie was curious about the interest in Chandler and somewhat dubiously accepted Morris’s version of the truth: that the actor didn’t show up on set that day and he was doing Charlie Bogle a favor. Just as he was getting off the phone with Annie, Polk called.

  “I’m driving back from Long Beach now,” Polk said.

  “Were you able to wrap up the fraud case?”

  “With a bow. A big polka dot one. The mink coats that were supposed to be stolen? Nope. I’ve got video of them being sold out of the back of a van by the store’s owner. So what do you got that’s so important?”

  “I need you to put a tail on someone. Melanie Penza.”

  “Penza, as in Big Joe Penza?”

  “Yeah, Melanie’s his fourth and current wife.”

  Polk sounded apprehensive as he asked, “We’ve got Big Joe as a client now?”

  “No, but we’re looking for a friend of hers. An actor by the name of Benjamin Chandler. I’ll text you photos of both of them.”

  “I know who he is. I’ve seen him in movies. Not very smart of the guy, playing footsies with Penza’s wife. Where do I pick up the tail on the wife?”

  “This is where it gets tricky. I’ve been speaking with Marty Wright out of Organized Crime, and they don’t know where Penza lives. Adam, though, has been looking into it, and he’s found places where the tabloids have taken photos of the wife. Spas, restaurants, shops. Give Adam a call and he’ll send you the list he came up with.”

  “The client has a limit regarding how much money I can spread around at these places so I get a call when she shows?”

  Morris didn’t bother to tell him there was no client, although there was a chance Bogle would be able to get Starlight Pictures to reimburse them for whatever expenses MBI laid out.

  He said, “Spend what you need to, just keep a record of it.”

  “Will do. I’ll be stopping by MBI. I’ve got a few ideas of my own, and need to pick up some equipment.”

  * * * *

  Benjamin Chandler lived in what would be considered a second-tier neighborhood for Beverly Hills. There were no ridiculously sized mansions, and none of the properties had tennis courts or private gates. While the homes were not modest by any stretch, they were squeezed onto lot sizes that were roughly a third of an acre. Still, even in Beverly Hills, there were neighborhoods several tiers below this one.

  Benjamin Chandler owned a two-story traditional house that Morris guessed was built in the forties, but still worth close to ten million dollars. The front was exposed to the street with twenty-five-foot-high hedges providing privacy on both sides and in the back.

  Bogle pulled his late-model Lexus that he’d bought used with eighty thousand miles on it into the circular drive, and he and Morris, with Parker plodding along, tried the front door. If the bell rang inside, they couldn’t tell—either it was broken or the construction was too solid to leak out any noise. Whichever it was, no one answered. The same after Bogle rapped his knuckles against the oak door. It didn’t surprise either of them when they investigated the back of the house and found the power line had been cut. Nor when they saw that a panel had been punched out from one of the patio doors. Neither bothered to mention the obvious—that the power line was cut to disable the alarm system.

  The door with the missing glass panel had been left unlocked. They entered the house. Morris and Bogle had worked together long enough as homicide detectives that they could communicate with simple gestures, and Morris indicated with his index finger that he’d take the second floor. Bogle began a search of the first floor. As Morris headed up the stairs, he could tell from Parker’s demeanor that the house was empty. If there’d been anyone lurking inside, Parker’s ears would’ve perked right up and he would’ve grown tense, but instead the bull terrier remained his usual happy self. A quick search of the five bedrooms and three bathrooms on the second level showed nothing unusual. No blood, no signs of violence, nothing to indicate the house had been robbed, and no Benjamin Chandler. When he was done, he and Parker met Bogle by the front door.

  “What do you think?” Bogle asked.

  Morris made a who-knows gesture with his hands.

  “Yeah, I know. But one or more persons other than Chandler forced their way into the house. Could be some of Big Joe Penza’s boys.”

  “There are no signs of a struggle,” Morris offered.

  “They could’ve cleaned up after themselves. Or gotten him out cleanly.”

  “If it was the first, they would’ve cleaned up the broken glass and fixed the door. The power line also. I don’t think it’s the second. I just can’t see Penza volunteering to me that he had a beef with Chandler if he’d already grabbed him.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’m sure it’s what it looks like. Penza’s boys broke in looking for Chandler. Odds are good Chandler got spooked before that and is on the run.”

  “Or he’s already buried in the desert.”

  “It’s possible. I just don’t think it’s likely.”

  Bogle made a face as if he had bitten into a habanero pepper. “We need to get the police involved,” he said.

  “If we do, we’ll have to tell them about your actor and Penza’s wife,” Morris said. “Odds are that juicy bit of gossip will leak out, especially if Hadley finds out about it.”

  Bogle said, “Which he will. By the end of the day that bastard will be trading it for a future favor.”

  “Easy to guess who his trading partner would be. Margot Denoir. She lives for stories like this, and no doubt we’d be watching a giddy-as-all-hell Margot repeating this gossip tomorrow morning on The Hollywood Peeper. I’m sure your studio wouldn’t mind the publicity.”

  Bogle groaned as he realized what else would happen if word of Chandler and Penza’s wife’s affair were made public. “Big Joe would be out for blood if this got out,” he said.

  “I’m not entirely convinced Penza only wants to talk to your actor,” Morris said. “But if this story gets out and he’s made into a public laughingstock, he’ll have to save face by hurting Chandler. At the very least, disfiguring him, but more likely than not, torturing him for days before making him disappear for good. Probably better if we don’t make this a police matter, at least until we know more.”

  Bogle showed a grim smile. “My employer would fire me on the spot if they knew I was keeping this from them.”

  “No doubt,” Morris agreed.

  Chapter 18

  Annie Walsh called to tell Morris that Chandler last used a credit card at a downtown Los Angeles restaurant. “Palace 21 on South Flower, Friday night. The charge was put in at eleven eighteen. One thousand six hundred dollars even.”

  Morris thanked her and told Bogle about the call. Bogle let out a low whistle. “That’s my monthly rent payment,” he said in amazement. “The way these actors burn through money. Must’ve been some party.”

  “One can only imagine.”

  “Friday night, huh? Three days missing and counting.”

  “Yeah.”

  On the way to the restaurant, Morris had Bogle stop at a food truck so he could buy Parker a pork taco. The bull terrier had been on his best behavior so far that day, and Morris wanted to make sure it stayed that way when they got to Palace 21. The taco mostly did the trick. It was only a little after five when they walked into the restaurant, but half the tables were already occupied, and the smell of delicious grilled food was drifting in from the kitchen. Parker, though, kept his mooching attempts to a minimum and only let out a single unha
ppy pig grunt about not getting any handouts.

  They found the waiter who had served Chandler. A good-looking man in his late twenties who had the look of someone who was waiting tables only until he got his big break in Hollywood. He told them the actor had used one of their private rooms but that it wasn’t for a party—that Chandler only entertained a single guest.

  “Describe the person,” Morris said.

  “Scary.”

  “Scary how?” Bogle asked.

  “Like Al Pacino from Scarface.” The waiter cleared his throat and lowered his voice so that no one passing by could hear him. “We get all types of moneyed customers, and it doesn’t take long to recognize the ones you need to be careful around. He was one of those.”

  The waiter gave them a physical description. Late thirties, dark hair, lean, but with a wiry toughness that you don’t want to mess with. He added, “The man was dressed sharply in a pinstripe suit, I think Giorgio Armani. The wide tie was a giveaway. So were the dark gray Italian oxfords.”

  “That’s a pretty good memory for someone who was here three days ago,” Bogle noted.

  “True,” the waiter agreed. “Partly it was because I’m a fan of Mr. Chandler, partly because some customers make an impression. This guy made a serious impression.”

  “I’d like to get you with a police artist,” Morris said.

  “You want a sketch of this guy?”

  “For starters,” Morris said.

  “We might have a video of him. There’s a surveillance camera by the front door, and I think the recordings are kept for a week.”

  “That would be even better,” Morris acknowledged. “How were Mr. Chandler and his guest getting along?”

  “I’d say they were chummy.” The waiter lowered his voice more and said, “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you hear things. From what I could tell, Mr. Chandler is going to be playing a gangster in his next movie and his um, guest, was helping him prepare for the part.”

  “That’s true,” Bogle told Morris. He muttered under his breath, “These damn method actors.”

  The waiter wetted his lips and said, “When Mr. Chandler was settling the bill, I overheard his guest saying that he needed to take care of some business before they could go to an all-night poker game.”

  “Were any names mentioned?”

  “None.” An alarmed look showed in his eyes. “Is Mr. Chandler in trouble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope not.” The waiter showed an apologetic smile. “I’m a big fan of his work. I’m an even bigger fan of people who tip twenty-five percent.”

  Morris gave him his card in case he thought of anything else that could help them identify the mystery guest. The manager of Palace 21 was able to locate video of Chandler and another man walking into the restaurant together last Friday evening, and he emailed Morris several photos that were cropped so that they only showed the mystery man. The waiter had been right. Al Pacino from Scarface was a near-perfect way to describe the guy.

  Once they were back in the car, Morris emailed the photos to Marty Wright and asked for help identifying the man. At that time it was past six, and they went back to the food truck and ordered more tacos—two each for Morris and Bogle, and another one for Parker. They were finishing up their meal when Morris got a call back from Wright. He put his phone on speaker so Bogle could listen in.

  “The guy in the photo is Vincent Scalise,” Wright said. “He works for Big Joe Penza. We’ve got a long list of felonies we like him for, including several murders, but no luck so far in building a case that could get past a grand jury, let alone convict the scumbag.”

  “A scary dude then.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. Here’s something interesting. Saturday morning his pride and joy, a new Lincoln Continental, was found ditched in a downtown alleyway. The car was dented up pretty good, but no blood inside or out. Since then we’ve been looking for Scalise but can’t find him. We can’t find the guy he likes to run with either. A knuckle dragger by the name of Frank Colgan.”

  “Where was the car found?”

  Wright gave him the address. “What’s your interest in this?” he asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure right now,” Morris said. “I’ll tell you more when the picture gets a little clearer.”

  “This is going to cost you,” Wright grumbled. “Forget beer. When I collect payment I’ll be drinking only top-shelf booze.”

  “I’ll start the paperwork now for a second mortgage.”

  Morris disconnected the call. Bogle’s eyes were glazed with a thousand-yard stare. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would one of Penza’s boys be palling around Friday night with Chandler if the guy was banging Penza’s wife? And why would the two of them both disappear?”

  Morris had a few thoughts on the matter, as he was sure Bogle did. “We need more clarity,” he said. He checked the time. It was almost seven. They’d check out the alley where Scalise’s Lincoln was found and see if that helped spark any additional ideas. More likely than not the clarity he sought would be coming in the days that followed.

  He pulled away from the curb, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The question that most distracted him was whether Penza wanted Chandler found because he believed the actor had had an affair with his wife or because Chandler had witnessed what happened to Vincent Scalise after the two of them left Palace 21. And if it was the latter, why would Penza make up a story about Chandler and his wife? And how was he able to seem so convincing?

  Morris had an idea. It was fuzzy and needed more focus, and his gut told him the additional clarity would come once Polk started tailing Melanie Penza.

  Or maybe after another talk with Big Joe.

  Chapter 19

  The owner of the dwelling stood in the shadows and watched as the seconds ticked to midnight. Finally! October second! So many years waiting for this. The owner’s heart pounded with the realization of what would soon be happening.

  There were so many misconceptions about the Nightmare Man, including the dates for when the killings started in 1984 and again in 2001. According to the news reports, October second was when his reign of terror began in 1984, which wasn’t entirely true. The media had it completely wrong in 2001. After he awoke from a seventeen-year hibernation to once again continue his glorious depravity, they reported that the first killing happened five days later than it did. Fake news.

  Reasonable people could argue that the anniversary date should be October third. In 1984 and 2001, the torture began late at night when it was still October second, but in both cases the victims continued breathing until the wee hours of October third, and only then were their lives snuffed out in the cruelest possible way.

  Furniture was moved aside, revealing a door that led to the special room. There was no doorknob, but a key was used and the door swung inward. The owner’s hand felt along the wall for a switch. A single sixty-watt bulb turned on.

  This was where the rats were kept, each in individual cages. If they were housed within a single cage, they’d tear each other apart in a cannibalistic fury. All five of them were hungry and angry. It was important that they be kept on the verge of starvation and fed only enough to remain alive. One of them soon enough would be gorging itself. In the days that followed the others would be doing the same.

  This special room was a holy place. A temple of sorts. Stories of the Nightmare Man’s murders were archived. Photos hung on the walls. Souvenirs taken from the 2001 victims were kept in a place of reverence on a small hand-built altar. The newspapers and TV stations never reported about the souvenirs. Perhaps they never knew about them. Perhaps the police never knew about them either. These were only small tokens. A lipstick canister. Glass earrings. Sunglasses. Panties. Stockings. Items that could easily be overlooked. Soon more souvenirs would join them.

  The room held mo
re than just the rats and artifacts from the past killings. Also stored away were photographs of the future victims, all of them taken as they lay sleeping and unaware. Each of them had been visited at least a half dozen times over the last two months. These visits occurred in the wee hours, and as the women slept, they were whispered to and told what would soon be happening to them. How the Nightmare Man would be coming for them. Sometimes they’d wake up, but they’d be too groggy to realize that a stranger was hiding just out of sight. Sometimes they’d fall back into a fitful sleep. Occasionally they’d get up for a while, but eventually they’d come back to bed, never realizing that they had company. When it was safe, the visitor would slip out of the apartment and disappear into the night, giddy from the excitement, and not just from these nocturnal visits, but from knowing what was coming.

  Such a long wait. The last few years were especially torturous, each day seemingly an eternity. But in only a little more than twenty-four hours it would be starting up again….

  The needle-nose pliers were picked up. Such a delicate tool, but they played an important role for what was coming. So did the hunting knife. It had been sharpened so that it could slice through an avocado pit. What it was soon going to be cutting would be significantly softer.

  All the tools and devices that were needed were kept in this special room. All of them maintained. All of them ready. None, though, was more important than the rats. They were what was truly nightmarish about the killings.

  The blood would soon be flowing. The thought of that made it so one could almost smell its coppery-metallic odor. Even more, could almost taste it. What would be done to the five women who were chosen would be far worse than any nightmare. Just like it had been in 1984 and in 2001. Just like it would be in another seventeen years.