by Jacob Stone
His cell phone rang. He worked it out of his pants pocket and scowled seeing that it was his boss, Sangonese. His first impulse was to turn off the phone, but if he did that it might make Sangonese suspicious, and Pettibone couldn’t afford for Sangonese to send another tech to check up on his work. While he had hidden the bombs as well as he could within the oil well’s machinery, it was impossible to hide them well enough. Any competent tech who dug in deep would find the small square package Pettibone had placed behind the compressors, and the tech would know it didn’t belong there.
Pettibone answered his phone. “Mark, is that you?” he said, trying hard to sound friendly.
Sangonese’s voice was curt. “You bet it’s me. I’m spot checking you this morning. You were supposed to be at oil well number 93 at eight forty-five this morning. It’s now nine-eighteen and you’re still not there.”
“Something came up this morning. I’ll be servicing all the wells you put on my schedule. Don’t worry about that.”
Sangonese’s voice took on a petulant note as he demanded, “What time are you going to be at the well?”
“No more than forty minutes.”
There was a long silence where Sangonese must’ve been figuring out how much grief to give him. “Make sure you are,” he finally said. “Think of it as your job depending on it.”
Sangonese hung up on him.
What Pettibone had said about something coming up was the truth. An understatement, really. At quarter past eight, he had the TV on and was eating the chocolate cake he had saved from last night. After flipping through several stations, he stumbled on the sensationalized local tabloid show, The Hollywood Peeper, the one with that flesh and blood Barbie doll. She had on an ex-cop that Pettibone now wanted to call—a guy who was talking about the murders they were convinced Reuben had done. Of course the ex-cop, a guy named Brick who looked remarkably like the bull terrier he had brought with him onto the show, didn’t know the identity of the killer since all he had were those two police sketches, but Pettibone knew it had to be Reuben, and he found himself glued to the set. When Brick talked about how Heather Brandley and the still unidentified woman were both sexually violated after they were killed, and that their bodies were mutilated to hide what was done to them, Pettibone understood that Reuben was a sicko freak.
Pettibone had learned months ago Reuben was a cold-blooded murderer after Crawford disappeared. He had also believed Reuben was an idealist who wanted to see the world burn. None of that had bothered him. In fact, he could wholeheartedly get behind burning down companies like Samson Oil & Gas. But this was different. It made his skin crawl knowing Reuben was killing these women to hide his sexual perversions. He couldn’t understand how blowing up the oil wells was connected with it, but he accepted that the guy had to be looney tunes. He also knew he could no longer count on Reuben paying the fifty grand he owed him.
Pettibone had doubts earlier about getting the rest of his money, but not like now. These were nearly paralyzing. Before leaving his apartment, he had looked up the phone number for the business that ex-cop ran, and then headed out to find a pay phone so he could make an anonymous call. He could still call the tip hotline number that was given since that one was toll-free, but Pettibone had long ago learned that if you wanted something done you had to speak to the guy in charge.
He made a decision and called MBI collect. When the operator asked him for a name, he said, “Tell them I’m the guy who knows who the killer is.”
“That’s not a name, sir.”
“It will be good enough for them.”
He heard her sighing as if she were talking to an insane person, but after being put on hold the call was accepted and a guy asked if he was calling about Heather Brandley’s murder.
“What do you think?”
“Okay, how about you give me your name and a phone number in case we get cut off?”
“Never mind that. Let me talk to Brick.”
“He’s not in the office. My name’s Charles Bogle. I’m one of the investigators here. Whatever you were going to say to Morris you can say to me.”
“Are you offering a reward for catching this killer?”
“What sort of reward are you looking for?”
“A hundred grand. Not a penny less. You get that offer reported on the news later today, and I’ll give you the killer tomorrow wrapped up with a bow. Guaranteed.”
“How about you tell me something to show you know who the killer is?”
Pettibone hated giving anything away for free, but he accepted that this was one of those times it would be to his benefit. “The guy’s name is Reuben. At least that’s what he calls himself.”
He hung up the receiver. Seconds later the phone rang back. No kidding. He expected it, just as he also knew the cops were on their way. Pettibone used his jacket sleeve to wipe off any fingerprints he might’ve left, and then he was speed walking back to his car.
* * * *
Before Bogle had accepted the collect call, the operator was able to tell him the call was being made at a pay phone outside the Buena Park bus station. Bogle knew the guy wasn’t going to be picking up when he called back, but he let it ring anyway in case someone in the area picked up and was able to give him a description of the caller.
When Greta walked into his office to tell him about the peculiar collect call that had come in, Bogle was working with Adam Felger to whittle down the massive list of movie producers. He hadn’t been kidding the other day when he made the crack about there being more producers in LA than coffeehouse baristas. The list Felger had originally come up with had at least a thousand names on it. The only saving grace was that the LAPD had given them access to the DMV database, so after pulling an all-nighter and looking at driver’s license photos (as well as finding other photos online when the licenses proved inconclusive), they were able to cross most of the names off the list, and had been spending that morning making phone calls to eliminate all but eleven possible suspects, none of whom were named Reuben.
Bogle had kept the collect caller on speaker, and he asked Felger what he thought.
“Beyond my pay grade,” MBI’s computer and hacking specialist said.
Bogle made a face at him. “Did the guy sound crazy?”
“I don’t think so.”
A minute later he got a call from a detective with the Buena Park Police Department to let him know that the caller had slipped away unseen, but they were going to canvass the area to see if they could come up with a description. “I’ll call you if we get anything,” the detective promised. Bogle next called Morris and told him what happened.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Morris said, whistling. “You think this guy’s legit?”
“No idea. He told me the killer’s name is Reuben, which fits with R. G. Berg.”
“It does. Any producers on your list named Reuben?”
The phone was still on speaker, and Felger entered a few keystrokes to search the database he had compiled.
“Three,” Felger said. “But we’ve eliminated them.”
They could hear Morris over the phone impatiently tapping his fingers against a table. The tapping stopped. Morris said, “Odds are this maniac is using an alias, but give those three a closer look.”
“Sure,” Bogle said. “What if the guy calls back asking about a hundred-thousand-dollar reward?”
“Tell him it’s been arranged. I’ll make sure the media starts reporting about it.”
Bogle smiled thinly as he fully caught Morris’s meaning. “He’s not going to be too happy if he delivers up the killer like he’s promising, and finds out afterward he’s being stiffed.”
“Let him sue.”
Bogle’s cell phone buzzed. Bleary-eyed from working through the night, he had to stare at his phone for a ten-count before he could read the caller ID. No name, only a number he
didn’t recognize. He begged off the phone with Morris and answered the call with a gruff, “Yeah?”
On the other end, an excitable voice talking in a rapid-fire fashion said, “Your lucky day, Bogle. The miracle I pulled off for you is bigger than any in the Bible. Bigger than Jesus walking on water. Man, I earned the other C-note you owe me.”
It took Bogle several seconds to realize who was calling. His former CI, Lionel Simmons. “How’s that?” he asked.
“That Tahoe you were so hot for? I found out what happened to it.”
“No kidding.”
Simmons sounded incredulous, almost hurt even, as he asked, “You think I’d kid about something like that?”
Chapter 28
Morris sat at a booth in his favorite LA diner, which had become his favorite because they were fine with him bringing Parker along.
“Hon, he’s a service dog, right?” the hostess had asked with a wink the first time Morris had gone there with Parker.
“In a way.”
“Good enough.”
This was five years ago, and since then Morris went out of his way to eat there, even when he didn’t have Parker tagging along.
When Charlie Bogle called, Morris was working on a plate of scrambled eggs with corned beef hash and a sesame seed bagel, while Parker had just finished off a plate of meatloaf with a couple of strips of bacon thrown on, and was beginning his mooching act to get some of Morris’s breakfast. After hearing about an anonymous caller promising to deliver them the killer for a hundred grand, Morris began to feel the way he always did when he knew things were getting close. It wasn’t because he believed the anonymous caller would follow through. It would be too easy for that to happen, and this killer just didn’t seem like he was going to be easy. Morris knew it was going to take a lot more blood, sweat, and tears (and hopefully not too much blood) before it would be over. But if one person knew the killer’s identity, there was a good chance others did too. It also meant the killer was making mistakes. Usually sooner than later, mistakes caught up with them.
The name Reuben struck him as odd. While he had eaten plenty of Reuben sandwiches at Bernie’s Deli over the years, Morris was sure he’d never actually known a Reuben. R. G. Berg had seemed vaguely familiar; Reuben G. Berg didn’t. It had to be an alias. Morris was sure of it. He called Annie Walsh.
“Amazing,” Walsh said before Morris could get a word out. “I was just about to call you. Seriously. My finger was touching the call button.”
“Why’s that?”
“We know who the third victim is. Another actress. Drea Kane.”
Drea Kane. The name made Morris sit up straighter. Kane was a far bigger name in Hollywood than Heather Brandley. A star, not a supporting player. She also wasn’t just beautiful, but glamorous. Like Brandley, she was in her thirties, maybe a few years younger than the other actress. Just last week Natalie had brought home a magazine with a glossy photo of Drea Kane adorning the cover, and it had caught Morris’s attention. In his mind’s eye, he could picture the way Kane’s lips were turned up into an impish smile and how dazzling her green eyes were, as if they were shining brightly with amusement. It was the look of someone who was the only one in the room to get the joke.
“How’d you find that out?” he asked.
“From her agent. Kane disappeared a week ago, which her agent said wasn’t that unusual, and when she did that she’s usually in Cabo. According to her agent Kane has the same tattoo on her right ankle as the body we found in Hipster Dipster, you know, the Chinese symbol for unbreakable. So that and the news reports from last night and your appearance today on The Hollywood Peeper made him nervous. When he couldn’t reach her, he called us. BHPD found one of R.G. Berg’s calling cards in her home. Also, photos. I was just heading over there.”
“What do the photos show?”
“Her body being severed with a handheld circular saw.”
The image of Drea Kane looking the way she did on that magazine cover being cut in half stuck in Morris’s mind, and he found that he’d lost his appetite. He put the plate holding what was left of his scrambled eggs and corned beef on the floor for Parker, and the bull terrier let out a few happy grunts to show his appreciation.
“Give me the address and I’ll meet you there,” Morris said.
* * * *
“Reuben, right? We’d like to talk to you about your old man, Lyle.”
Fifteen years ago, Lyle Ford had butchered four women, using hacksaws to cut off their limbs. His thirty-one-year-old son, who’d been named Toby but was now going by the name Andrew Wayne, showed little reaction to being called Reuben other than staring at Lemmon with a mix of annoyance and confusion. Morris had called a few minutes earlier to inform Lemmon that the killer might be using the alias Reuben, but if that name meant anything to Lyle Ford’s son, he didn’t show it by his reaction.
Andrew Wayne, formerly Toby Ford, said, “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“My mistake. You’re now going by the name Andy Wayne, right?”
Wayne sneered at the hand Lemmon offered and dismissed it with a shake of his head. “This is about that actress and the other woman who were killed?”
Lemmon pulled his hand back. “Why’d you ask that?”
Wayne laughed bitterly. “You think you’re the first cop looking at me as a potential serial killer?”
“It’s more than that, Andy.”
Wayne let out another bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t care what it is. I don’t have to talk to you, and guess what, I’m not going to.”
Fred Lemmon and Detective Craig Gunderson had cornered Wayne in a back area of a movie set. While Lyle Ford’s son wasn’t a movie producer, he worked in the film industry building sets for Starlight Pictures, which made Lemmon think that the guy would have the expertise and means to build the scaffolding used to support Heather Brandley’s corpse at the wax museum, and also have access to the kind of explosives used in rigging up the mannequin-corpse nightmare found inside the clothing store.
Wayne tried to sidestep past Lemmon, but the MBI investigator stepped in his way and gave Wayne a hard look. The police sketches resembled a thirty-one-year-old Lyle Ford more than it did his son, but Lemmon could still see a resemblance. It wasn’t definitive, but the drawing could be him. Given the glint in Craig Gunderson’s eyes and the way his blubbery flesh had seemed to harden like rubber, he must’ve thought it was a possibility also.
“Let me explain the situation,” Lemmon said. “Heather Brandley and the other victim weren’t just killed. They were cut up. Your old man used to like to dismember women, didn’t he?”
Wayne blanched. “A hacksaw was used?” he asked.
“No, this time it was a circular saw. Something that would be perfect for cutting almost anything. I’m guessing you’d have access to one in your line of work.”
“This just isn’t right.” A panic was beginning to show in Wayne’s eyes as he looked past Lemmon to see if anyone else might’ve wandered into the area. His voice breathless, he said, “You can’t just come to my place of work about something like this. I’ve never hurt anyone. It’s not my fault Lyle was a psychotic madman.”
Gunderson’s eyes had narrowed to angry slits, giving him the look of an oversized attack dog who was just dying to go for the jugular. “We’re being nice here,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “We waited until you stepped back here so we could approach you nice and friendly-like with nobody else around. If you want instead, we can drag your supervisor into this and make sure he understands who your daddy was. Or I can cuff you, and take you in for questioning. If you make me do that, I’ll be holding you for the full twenty-four hours. Your call, chief.”
Wayne’s eyes had become liquid with fear. Or maybe he was about to start bawling. Lemmon wasn’t sure which. He put a hand on Wayne’s shoulder. A friendly gesture. The way Wayne flinched
, he didn’t take it as such.
“Help us clear this up,” Lemmon said. “You do that and we’ll leave you alone. As I said, it’s more than we’re dealing with a serial killer. More even than he’s cutting women up the way Lyle liked to do.”
“What is it then?”
There was only one way Lemmon saw of playing this, so he played it straight. “Tell me how you feel about Morris Brick.”
Wayne blinked several times as he stared confused at Lemmon. “That’s the cop who caught Lyle,” he said.
“That’s right. Because of Morris your dad was sent to Pelican Bay.”
“Lyle,” Wayne corrected. “I don’t think of him as my father. And your question about Morris Brick, if I could, I’d buy him a beer. Dinner also. Arresting that monster was the best thing that ever happened to me and my mom.”
Wayne seemed sincere. Heartfelt even. Lemmon said, “Six months ago Lyle had his head bashed in at Pelican Bay. Are you telling me you don’t blame Morris for his death?”
“Why would I?”
Lemmon breathed in deeply and a heavy sigh eased out of him. The guy would have to be a damn good actor to pull off a performance this convincing. Or a psychopath. And that was the rub. The experts still don’t know what causes someone to become a psychopath. They have their theories, and there are some who believe genetics is a factor.
“Where were you yesterday from two to three?”
“Thursday?” Wayne asked. He seemed almost too rattled to answer the question.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I had an errand I had to run yesterday afternoon. It might’ve been then.”
“So no one can vouch for you,” Gunderson said. He gave Lemmon a sideways glance, his smirk showing that he found Wayne’s answer too convenient.