by Jacob Stone
At the end of the block was a small park across the street from her condo, and as part of her routine, Heather would always sit on the lone bench in the park and enjoy her juice. Today, though, there was someone already sitting there. A man, maybe the same age as Peter Shays. Nicely dressed in a Versace suit and wearing an attractive pair of Italian loafers. Good-looking also, with his sandy-brown hair and neatly trimmed goatee. She caught a glimpse of the Hublot watch on his wrist and had a good idea of how much it cost. So he had money also. She smiled as she thought of how he was the right age for her to play a different kind of mommy to, and besides, the bench was big enough for two. He was good-looking in a cute sort of way and presented himself well. She sat to his right and watched with amusement as he tried to act as if he were too absorbed with what he was reading on his cell phone to notice that she was there. As she finished up her juice, she slurped to get his attention. He looked up then with an exaggeratedly startled expression.
“Oh, hi,” he said, blushing. “I didn’t realize I had company.” He held out a hand. “Jason,” he said.
So cute. “Heather,” she said as she took his hand.
He opened his eyes wide. “You’re Heather Brandley! Wow! I’m such a huge fan. I love everything you’ve been in, especially The Day After Yesterday.”
“You mean today,” she said with a thin smile.
He blushed some more, and Heather thought again that he was cute. She also thought about how much she needed this type of an ego boost.
“I guess I was just being dense, but I never made that connection before with that movie title. I hope this doesn’t look like I was stalking you, because this is really just an amazing coincidence, but I’m looking to make an independent film that you’d be so perfect for.”
Her own smile faded fast. “You were stalking me,” she said.
He began to give her a startled look as if he couldn’t understand why she would accuse him of something like that, but then cut it off and instead grinned.
“You caught me red-handed,” he admitted. “I know you live over there” —he nodded toward the condo complex across the street— “and I was hoping to catch you when you left home. I certainly didn’t expect you to sit down next to me on this bench. It must be kismet.”
Heather’s eyes narrowed as she gave him a dubious look. “Tell me about this movie.”
“Pure action. One kick-ass sequence leading into the next. And I want you to star.”
“Nudity?”
“None. I do want you in a spandex outfit, though, to show off your ridiculously gorgeous body.”
She was flattered, but she kept her tone purely business as she asked, “Budget?”
“Six million.” He made an apologetic gesture with his hands. “I know that’s not a lot, but this is an independent film, not a studio picture.”
“I’ve worked on smaller budgeted films,” she admitted. “How do you plan on raising the money?”
“I don’t. I’ve already got it.”
“How is that?”
“I’ve been successful with my business.” He fiddled with his phone and then handed it to her. He had brought up on the screen his company’s website, and as Heather scrolled through it he told her that his business was mostly corporate sponsorships and events, but that it had been very lucrative.
“I’ve seen some of your videos on YouTube,” she admitted.
“Not surprising. They’ve gotten millions of hits.”
“How come your website has your name but not your photo?”
“I like to have an air of mystery.”
When Heather first started questioning him about his movie, it was mostly as a lark and partly because he was cute, but now this was starting to get serious.
“How much would you pay me?” she asked.
“One hundred thousand plus ten percent of the gross.”
Heather had had to work for scale on her last three movies. She concentrated to sound nonchalant as she told him that he could send her a script.
“That’s terrific! I’ll get a copy in the mail later today.” He froze for a moment and made a face as if he were trying to decide how bold he could be, and Heather smiled to herself. He was cute after all, and she was beginning to fancy the idea of getting naked with him for an intensive cardiovascular workout, and so she waited for him to work up the courage to proposition her.
“I’ve also got the movie storyboarded,” he said. “If you have the time, I could take you to my workshop and go over it with you. And maybe dinner at Luzana’s afterward.”
Luzana’s was the hottest spot in Los Angeles. A-listers only. Heather had been dying to get in there—more so she could be seen than even to try the food, which was supposed to be exquisite.
“Do you have reservations?” she asked, a tad too anxiously.
He waved off the question as if he were carelessly swatting at a fly. “Not needed. I have an understanding with the maître d’. If I call him for a table for tonight, it won’t be an issue. Especially if I tell him who my guest is.”
That settled it. Everybody thinks they can make a movie, and it was more likely than not the script he had was putrid, even if he was willing to sink six million of his own money into it. But being seen at Luzana’s tonight would make up for spending time looking over his storyboards. And who knew? His movie idea might actually be decent. She’d seen his videos, and even if making them required a very different skillset than making a movie, he was certainly talented at what he did. Besides, after dinner they could have their tumble in the sack, and she could really use that right now.
“Sold,” she said. “I need to obviously shower and dress first—”
“I’ll wait here for you.” Somewhat magnanimously, he offered, “If for whatever reason you change your mind, I’ll understand completely, but if that happens could you send out your doorman to let me know so I don’t sit here for hours?”
He is just so cute. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she promised.
The killer watched as she walked away. He had to admit that she looked nice from behind in her running shorts and tank top. Beautiful legs, too. Long and slender and toned. She turned to look back at him and wave, and he smiled and waved also. Once she disappeared inside her building, his genial smile became something different.
He had done his research and so he knew she’d be sitting on this bench after her run, just as he knew how she’d react to everything he had said. He had read enough interviews with her to know that she’d come back with that idiotic comment regarding the movie The Day After Yesterday (a movie he had no intention of ever seeing), which would make her feel oh-so-clever. He further knew that she had never made it onto the A-list and was only being paid scale, and that the idea of being paid a hundred grand and a healthy percentage of the gross would leave her salivating. And of course, like all B-list actors and actresses in this city, she would kill to be seen at Luzana’s.
The killer was proud of himself and the performance that he gave. He had been convincingly self-effacing, as if he were actually in awe of her. He’d even been able to blush on command—at least he thought he had. It would be hard to know for certain without a mirror, but he had felt a hotness flushing his cheeks that seemed to indicate that he had succeeded. The book he had read about method acting had helped. It had allowed him to slip into character and stay there until she had left. He had her fooled completely, no doubt about it.
When thirty minutes passed without her returning, the killer wasn’t so sure anymore about how much he had fooled her. After forty minutes, he started wondering if he had made a mistake. An uneasiness began working its way into his chest. She was an important piece in his plans. He needed her. Was it possible that he had overplayed his hand? Could he have blown it by mentioning a doorman? Did that make her start wondering how he knew her building had one?
Damn.
Damn. Damn.
Why’d he have to mention anything about her doorman! What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had her sold hook, line, and sinker, so why’d he have to shoot off his mouth like that?
He sat frozen, not quite sure what to do. The only way to reach her condo was to first get past the doorman and the building’s security system. Because of his disguise he didn’t care whether he left the police a video recording of himself on the building’s surveillance system, but the doorman was an entirely different matter since he hadn’t brought a weapon, at least not a conventional one. He could theoretically use the hypodermic needle that was meant for Brandley, but then what? If he were to kill the doorman now it would disrupt his later plans!
His uneasiness had turned into a full-blown panic, but then he spotted Brandley leaving her building. Her hair was done up, and she wore a sheer green dress that showed off her legs and black stiletto pumps that accentuated her calves. She was certainly dressed to be noticed with a strand of pearls around her neck and long, dangling gold earrings. Or some might say dressed to kill. He snickered inwardly as he thought about the truth. Dressed to be killed.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I hope you didn’t think I was standing you up?”
“You had me worried for a bit,” the killer admitted.
“I’m so sorry, but I wanted to look decent for tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” he said. More inward snickering as he added, “You’ll be turning heads later, no question about it.”
“You’re just too kind.” She batted her eyes at him. “Were you able to make reservations for Luzana’s?”
“Yep. I’ve got us a table for seven-thirty. That should give us more than enough time to go over the storyboards and script.”
The killer stood, and Heather took his arm. The killer pointed out his Mercedes sedan parked on the street, the trunk of which was more than large enough to hold Heather Brandley’s body.
“You’ll be driving me in style,” Heather said, pleased with how her day was turning out.
The killer didn’t bother to correct her. As they made their way to the Mercedes, he deftly removed the hypodermic needle from his inside suit jacket pocket. Heather didn’t notice it until it was too late for her to even scream.
Chapter 4
Charlie Bogle entered the Long Beach police station on West Broadway and informed the desk sergeant he was there to see Detective Vernon Howard. The sergeant sized Bogle up quickly.
“You used to be on the force?” he asked.
“Sixteen years with the LAPD.”
The sergeant’s expression showed he had guessed that. “Name?”
Bogle told him his name, and the sergeant got on the phone, had a quick conversation, then told him Howard was waiting for him. “Squad room’s upstairs. Take the first door on your right.”
Bogle thanked him, went up the stairs, entered the squad room, and spotted Howard sitting at a desk. When they had worked together years earlier, Howard had looked like he could’ve been an NFL linebacker. Now he was even bigger—not fat, but much wider, almost as if he had doubled in size. As Bogle approached him, Howard sat motionless with his thick, heavy arms crossed over his chest, his face locked into a deadpan expression. It wasn’t until Bogle reached the desk that Howard at last broke out in a wide grin and offered his meaty hand, which was nearly the size of a baseball glove. Bogle’s own hand disappeared inside it.
“Damn, Charlie, how long’s it been?” Howard asked.
“How long have you been working in Long Beach?”
“Ten years.”
“That’s how long it’s been.”
Howard’s expression drifted into something wistful. “How’s Jenny and the kids?”
“We divorced five years ago. Her idea. Tom and Eileen are both in college, and even though they’re local it’s still costing me an arm and a leg.”
“Ah, man, sorry to hear about the split.”
Bogle shrugged. “I can’t blame her. I wasn’t the easiest guy to be married to. How about you and Marcie and your brood?”
“She’s still busting my balls every day, and will be until the day they lower me into the ground. Boys are behaving themselves. Last fall, Vernon Jr. started his freshman year at UCLA. Got himself a football scholarship. Defensive end.”
“Wow. That’s terrific.”
Howard beamed, showing his pride. Then his expression turned serious and he asked, “So you’re here to talk about Karl Crawford’s disappearance. The wife hire you?”
“Yeah.”
Howard’s eyelids lowered a bit, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He grabbed a folder from his desk, and told Bogle they’d talk in one of the interrogation rooms. “You want some coffee?” he offered.
“Is it any better than what we used to have on Wilcox Ave.?”
“Some.”
“Sure, I’ll have a cup.”
On the way to the interrogation room they stopped to pour themselves coffee, and Bogle, remembering what the Wilcox Ave. precinct coffee had tasted like, grabbed himself four packets of sugar. Once they were seated in the ten-by-eight-foot windowless interrogation room, Howard peered at Bogle through half-lidded eyes as he sipped his drink. He asked, “Your take on Lauren Crawford?”
“I think she’s legit. You don’t, huh?”
Howard took another sip before shaking his head. “Not necessarily. But it’s one of two things: someone killed Crawford and buried his body, or he took off to parts unknown. If it’s the first, she’s the only one I could find who would profit from his death, but that would only be if there was a death certificate issued so that she could collect on the life insurance.”
“You’re thinking she might not want to have to wait seven years to have him declared legally dead, and that we were hired to help speed things along?”
Howard shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s possible. Especially if she gave you any hints where you might find his body.”
“She didn’t give us anything. She seems in the dark about what happened. But if that changes and she calls us with some sort of epiphany, I’ll let you know.”
Howard appeared satisfied with Bogle’s remark. He took out a map of the greater Los Angeles area from the folder he had brought and spread it out on the table.
“Karl Crawford worked for Samson Oil & Gas maintaining the oil wells we’ve got dotting the Los Angeles landscape,” Howard said. “He’s been doing that for twenty-two years, and according to his company, he’s been a conscientious and reliable employee with a spotless record. On November fourth of last year, he serviced this well over here.” Howard pointed a thick index finger to a spot on the map near the outskirts of Long Beach that had been marked with a red x. “According to the maintenance log kept at the well, Crawford signed in at eight thirty-seven a.m. and signed out at ten forty-nine a.m. He was next scheduled to go to this well over here, but he never showed up. Or at least he didn’t sign in on the log, and according to Samson there was no sign that maintenance had been done that day.”
Howard pointed to another red x drawn on the map, this one north of the first, and near Lakewood.
“Hmm. It looks like the two wells are about seven miles apart,” Bogle commented.
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“Did anyone see him leave the Long Beach well?”
“Not that I could find. The wells are unmanned, and in isolated locations. Nobody else from Samson was there.”
Bogle frowned at that. “So he just disappeared somewhere between the two wells?”
“Yeah, seemingly both him and his car.”
“What have you done to try to find him?”
“The usual. Checked hospitals, monitored his credit cards, activated his car theft retrieval system, did a spot check of the area around bo
th wells, looked into his home life. I got nothing with any of that.”
“Why didn’t you bring in bloodhounds to search for him?”
Howard made a get real face at that question. “Are you serious, Charlie? I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere requesting that. Maybe if I’d found the car abandoned, or better yet, with his blood, it would’ve been different. But as it is, what it looks like is he got in his car and decided to drive to a new life somewhere else.”
“Why would he do that? Were there any signs he was planning to leave? Marital discord?”
Howard gave Bogle a look as if he couldn’t believe Bogle was asking him that.
“Come on, man, the guy’s forty-five and doing the same lonely, tedious job for twenty-two years. He was a perfect candidate for a midlife crisis. He could’ve been putting money aside for months planning for this. Are you seriously going to tell me you’ve never daydreamed about getting in your car and driving someplace far away and starting your life all over?”
Straight-faced, Bogle said, “Me? I’m living the dream. Why would I ever think of something like that?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had those daydreams.” Howard seemed surprised that he had admitted that out loud. “Not that I ever thought about it seriously, mind you.”
“If that’s what happened, why’d he spend two hours working on that first well before taking off?”
“Maybe he finally reached his limit. Who knows?”
“You think that’s what happened?”
Howard drank more of his coffee, his eyes narrowing into slits. “For now,” he admitted. “But let’s see what you come up with.”
“Anything else you can think of that might help?”
“Not a thing.” Howard crumpled his cardboard coffee cup into a ball and tossed it into a trash can, banking it off the wall.
“Let me walk you out of here.”
The two men got up and left the interrogation room.
Chapter 5