by Jacob Stone
He remembered then his vague plan from a week ago, and he decided instead to focus on that.
Chapter 36
Los Angeles, the present
The unmarked car with two plainclothes LAPD detectives inside was still parked half a block away when Morris returned home. He had stopped off for pizza, and he bought an extra one for the detectives who’d been watching his wife and daughter all day. The officers saw him approaching and rolled down the driver’s side window. Morris handed over a pizza and a six-pack of beer and told the detectives they could call it a night.
“Things been quiet?” he asked.
“As a mouse. We’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. Six a.m. okay?”
“You can make it seven.”
“Both parties going to stay inside the house again?”
“I’m going to try to convince them to do so.”
The detective thanked him for the pizza and beer, and drove off. Morris walked back to his car, got Parker out of the front seat and the pizza out of the trunk, and then headed inside. Natalie met him at the front door. While Parker demonstrated by wagging his tail and making several grunts that he was happy to see her, his greeting was more muted than usual as he was distracted by the pizza.
“Only eight o’clock,” Natalie said. “I was surprised when you called and told me you were coming home this early. I thought you’d be pulling an all-nighter.”
“It wouldn’t do me any good,” Morris said.
Kissing her, he took hold of her hand, and the two of them headed to the kitchen.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “You’re learning in your old age.”
Morris chuckled, some of his weariness leaking through. “It only took me twenty-some-odd years. Nat, we’ve got a lot on this psycho, but we’re going to need something more before we catch him. Unless the FBI is able to pinpoint him from his purchases, all we can do for now is have the media keep showing those sketches and try to goad him into making a mistake, and wait for our next break.”
He put the pizza down on the kitchen countertop while Natalie selected a bottle of wine.
“Pinot noir or Chianti?” she asked.
“Your choice.” He opened the pizza box so he could fully breathe in the wonderful aroma and get a look at the half sausage, quarter shrimp, and quarter broccoli pie. The sausage was for him and Parker, the shrimp for Nat, and the broccoli for Rachel. Parker jumped up with his front paws resting on the cabinet door so he could get a look also. Morris let him do so. He figured after the day they both had, the bull terrier deserved that much.
Natalie handed him a bottle of Chianti and a corkscrew. As Morris struggled to pull out what was turning into a very stubborn cork, he asked his wife about her day in captivity.
“It was fine. We’ve got nice prison accommodations here. I spent it doing yoga and catching up on some reading.”
There was a loud popping noise as Morris was able to yank the cork out without spilling any wine.
“How about our daughter?”
“She has all her law books on her tablet, so she was able to spend the day studying. A little, but not too much grousing from her.” Natalie showed a conspiratorial smile. “Rachel’s holed up in her bedroom now, and I believe she’s talking to her new boyfriend.”
Morris frowned at that. “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone after breaking up with whatshisname.”
“You mean Paul?”
“That’s what I said. Whatshisname. What do you know about this new guy?”
“Nothing. It’s only a guess on my part, but from the expression on her face when the call came and the way she hurried to her bedroom, I think it’s a pretty good one.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
Morris said, “Nothing. I’ll let Rachel know pizza’s waiting.”
He didn’t want to tell Natalie what he was thinking. He left the kitchen quickly so she wouldn’t be able to read anything further from his expression. When he got to his daughter’s bedroom, he stood and listened as Rachel talked in a hushed voice over the phone. He knocked, and Rachel came to the door, her face flushed.
“I brought home pizza,” Morris said. “You ready to come down and join us?”
“Sure.”
Morris lowered his voice. “Your mom told me you have a new boyfriend?”
Rachel smiled thinly, her eyes as hard as stone. “Your wife is very intuitive. I’ve got to be more careful around her.”
“True, but still, tell me about him.”
Rachel’s thin smile became strained, and her flinty eyes dulled. “Sorry, Dad, but no. We’ve only been seeing each other for a month. My life, you know?”
Rachel had always been fiercely protective of her privacy, and even more so after a rough breakup with whatshisname. That was partly over having a dad who was a cop, and the third degree he gave the boys she dated back in high school, and partly her makeup. Morris expected this response, and he hated what he had to tell her next.
“This maniac we’re after has been planning these murders for months. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
He didn’t know what type of reaction to expect from his daughter, but having her snort out with laughter, then bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep from laughing further was near the bottom of his list.
“I’m sorry, Dad, really. I know you’re not being ridiculous, and under normal circumstances this would be worth investigating. But not in this case. The man I’ve been seeing is not your psycho killer. Even if I hadn’t seen those police sketches, I would be able to guarantee it.”
“Sweetheart, this maniac is devious, and he’s good at using prosthetics to disguise himself.”
Rachel made a decision. “You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s someone you know. That’s all I’m going to say about it. And it’s not Dennis Polk, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
“Well, that’s good. If it was Polk, I’d have to disown you.”
“If it was Polk, I’d have to disown myself.”
“It’s not Adam Felger?”
She gave him a stern look. “We’re not making this a guessing game. I’m hungry, let’s go have some pizza.”
Morris nodded, properly chastised, but also relieved as well as curious. But he knew better than to push Rachel any further. As they walked together down the hallway, he whispered to her, asking that she not mention any of this to her mom. Rachel in a soft voice told him not to worry.
When they entered the kitchen, Natalie must’ve sensed something was up. She looked at them suspiciously, while Parker gave Rachel a lukewarm greeting as he was still distracted by the pizza.
“What have you two been conspiring about?” Natalie asked.
“You were right. Our daughter’s seeing someone. I was trying to get her to divulge his name, but all she’d tell me is it’s not Polk.”
“Well, that’s a relief, at least,” Natalie said with a straight face.
Rachel’s expression let them know as far as she was concerned this discussion was over. They sat down then to salad, pizza, and wine, and Parker was finally rewarded for his Job-like patience. Morris was reaching for a second slice when his phone rang. He frowned seeing that Margot Denoir from The Hollywood Peeper was calling.
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like this,” Morris said to her when he answered the call.
“Probably not. Your pervert killer left me something.”
Morris got up from the kitchen table so he could talk privately. He was absent-mindedly still holding the slice of pizza he had grabbed, and because of that Parker followed him.
“Quit being coy, Margot,” he said.
“Sorry. An old habit to make sure my audience sticks around after the commercial break. He left an envelope addressed to me outside the Channel Four building. Inside were photog
raphs of what he did to Heather Brandley and Drea Kane. I thought we were friends. You held out on me.”
Morris felt a pulse begin beating in his right temple. “I adore you, Margot, you know that. And what I told you was sensational enough.”
“I disagree. If you truly adored me you would’ve told me about this fiend cutting these unfortunate actresses in half. And you would’ve told me where he left their bodies. At least where he left Brandley’s upper half and Kane’s lower half.”
“You’re being coy again.”
“True. He included sickeningly gruesome photos from the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers exhibit at the wax museum, and the mannequin he devised for that downtown LA clothing store.”
The pulse beating in Morris’s temple was gone, replaced by a coolness. “When did he leave you the envelope?”
“I don’t know. An intern working here found it outside sometime around four o’clock, and left it buried in a stack of mail on my desk. I’ve since tried asking her if she could be more specific about the time. She can’t. I didn’t open the envelope until twenty minutes ago. And of course, you’re the first person I called.”
“Does your building have outdoor surveillance cameras?”
“Sadly, no. I’ve already asked security.”
“Okay, I’ll have LAPD pick all of it up. Don’t touch any of it again. And Margot, you can’t use it.”
She laughed. A soft, tinkling laughter. Normally Morris liked the sound of it, but not then. “I’m fond of you, Morris, but no offense, I’m much fonder of the ratings these photos are going to give me.”
“If you use any of it, it will hurt our chances of catching this maniac. I’ll also be slamming the door shut on you. You’ll never get anything else from me.”
“Losing your friendship would sadden me immensely. But Morris, darling, you’re no longer a homicide detective, and from what I hear most of your private investigations are cut-and-dry corporate cases. So that’s not much of a threat since you might never have anything else to give me.”
He knew he wouldn’t be able to get a court order in time to stop her, nor would it do any good to threaten an obstruction of justice charge.
“I’ll trade,” he said. “I’ll give you an exclusive tomorrow. Prime time. What I have will blow the roof off your ratings.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Off the record?”
“Yes. Agreed. Off the record.”
Morris had an agreement with the LAPD to keep Faye Riverstone’s abduction and maiming under wraps, but he couldn’t let Margot make those photos public. This psycho wanted recognition for his murders, and their best chance of leading him into making a crucial mistake was to keep frustrating him.
“He took Faye Riverstone,” Morris said. “As long as you behave yourself, I’ll tell you and your audience all about it tomorrow night.”
“I’ll behave myself,” Margot promised in an oddly reverent tone, at least for her. “Scout’s honor.”
Morris couldn’t imagine Margot Denoir ever being a Girl Scout, but he kept that thought to himself. They had a quick conversation to discuss what time he needed to be at the station tomorrow night. After he got off the call, he looked down to see that Parker had licked the sausage and cheese off the slice of pizza he had forgotten he was holding. The bull terrier gave him a guilty look that his rather clownish theft had been discovered. Morris couldn’t help laughing.
“It’s just been one of those days.”
He fed the bull terrier the rest of the slice. Parker grunted his appreciation.
Chapter 37
The killer had been kept busy most of the day thanks to the monkey wrench Pettibone had thrown into his plans, but by nine o’clock he had everything ready and tested for his midnight rendezvous. With that taken care of, he turned the TV on, switching it to Channel Four. Margot Denoir must’ve gotten the envelope he had left for her hours ago, and he’d been anxious all day to see how they were now reporting the story. He would’ve turned on the TV earlier, but he decided to wait until he was ready to deal with Pettibone before rewarding himself.
He didn’t have to wait long before a news flash came on about the Sex Pervert Maniac Killer. He was stunned by the name they had given him, and even more so by what they were reporting. They didn’t use any of the photos he had left for Denoir. Instead, they were actually saying that he was sexually violating the dead bodies of his victims, and that his reason for mutilating their bodies afterward was a pathetic attempt to hide his sexual perversions.
For several minutes, the killer felt as if he’d been smacked in the face with a sledgehammer. None of it made any sense! Once the ME got the bodies back to his lab, he should’ve recognized his mistake. Unless…
A flash of inspiration struck, and the killer realized what must’ve happened. They were intentionally telling malicious lies about him so the public would believe he was nothing more than a sicko freak. He also knew who was responsible. Brick.
He tried telling himself it didn’t matter. Once his death machine fully played out, the world would know the truth regardless of these lies. As he thought about Brick’s duplicity the numbness he felt was replaced by a white-hot fury. It had been years since he had wanted to hurt someone as badly as he wanted to hurt Brick right then. He had to go all the way back to when he was fifteen and he came home from school to discover that the rat-faced little turd Simon Witt had destroyed his first Rube Goldberg machine. But he was patient then. He’d be equally patient with Brick. He wasn’t going to let Brick maneuver him into making a mistake. That was what he was after. But when this was over, the killer was going to get his hands on Brick’s wife and daughter, and he was going to do sickening things to them. Assuming they survived the coming devastation.
The killer checked the time. Only twenty past nine. He knew where oil well number 18 was located since it was one of the wells on the list he gave Pettibone. He had plenty of time before he needed to head over there, but given how he was feeling he’d be climbing the walls if he stayed where he was. He hadn’t eaten anything since snacking on wood-grilled calamari in Malibu. A good dinner and a couple of beers would lift his spirits. He knew just the place. A nice casual spot, and it would be on the way to the oil well.
He checked himself in a mirror. The prosthetic nose he had attached earlier was still holding strong. He’d skip the fake teeth this time—it was tough enough earlier eating calamari with them. But even without them, the disguise he had on would be good enough. The killer packed up what he needed for later and headed out.
* * * *
The killer bypassed the first empty spot so he could park with no car on either side of him. A doughy-looking man wearing a windbreaker who had to be a parking attendant came hustling over to him.
“I need you to park over there,” he said, referring to the first empty spot.
The killer looked around. While the restaurant had a small lot that often got cramped during its peak times, at that hour there were plenty of empty spaces.
“It’s almost ten o’clock. I don’t think it will be a problem if I leave my car where it is.”
“Friday night’s one of our busiest,” the attendant said, unmoved. “I need you to move your car or I’ll have it towed.”
The killer recognized that the attendant had the mind of a bureaucrat. Worse, he was one of those little people who enjoyed wielding the little power he had. Without arguing any further, he got in his car, backed it up, and parked in the first empty spot. The attendant once again hurried over to him.
“You need to get closer to the other car.”
The killer stared at the man in disbelief. Maybe he’d be able to park four inches closer and still be able to open the car door, but the point of the request wasn’t so that he’d park his car perfectly. This nitwit was busting his balls just to bust them. But it wasn’t worth arguing. He got back behind the
wheel, and as he tried to adjust his parking, the nitwit attendant moved to the front of the car and started making hand gestures as if he were trying to aid the killer in his effort. The gestures, though, made no sense. It was as if he were drunkenly turning an imaginary steering wheel in all different directions. It was just too much when he started signaling for the killer to bring the car forward, even though he was standing only inches away from the front bumper.
The killer hit the gas, crushing the attendant’s legs and pinning him against the other car. He had earlier moved a tire iron up front so he’d have it ready for later, and he grabbed it, maneuvered himself out of the tight squeeze with the neighboring car that the attendant had forced him into, and then started swinging the tire iron at the man’s head as if he were trying to crush a pumpkin with a baseball bat.
The man might’ve cried early on, he might’ve even been screaming. If he was, the killer wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the roaring pounding in his ears. It was only after he had turned the man’s head into a bloody pulp that he realized what he was doing. He also understood then just how much anger toward Brick was still simmering beneath the surface.
The killer stood breathing heavily, his chest heaving, as he processed what had happened. His other killings were completely cold-blooded. They were necessary so he could put the dominos in place for his machine. He took no pleasure in the actual killings, only in how the deaths would later be used. This was different. He enjoyed killing this nitwit. More than he would’ve ever imagined.
The killer’s breathing slowed. He remembered then where he was, and that anyone coming to or leaving the restaurant would be able to see him. He looked around and didn’t spot anyone. He then sucked in his stomach and squeezed himself back into his car. He felt hungrier right then than he had felt in ages, but he wouldn’t be able to eat there now. That was okay. He knew of another restaurant on the way to the oil well that he’d be able to stop at for some takeout. A thought occurred to him. That annoying-as-hell parking attendant might’ve left blood on his car. Well, if so, he’d take care of it later.