Malicious

by Jacob Stone

  “His alleged murder since you can’t actually prove it.”

  “True, but I’m convinced he was shot to death while sitting in his car. What if this psycho approached Crawford about planting bombs in the oil wells, and killed Crawford when he turned him down? Or he could’ve killed Crawford so he could take his job? He could’ve planted explosives in dozens of oil wells by now.”

  “Ah, hell,” Morris said.

  “My thought exactly,” Bogle agreed.

  Chapter 53

  Todd Blankenford woke up with his head throbbing and his mouth tasting like he had spent the night sucking on a urinal cake. He tried opening his eyes against the morning light, but the effect was like tiny slivers of glass shooting into his brain. He grabbed the pillow from behind his head and held it over his face so it would muffle his screams.

  This shit had to stop. At some point, he had to accept that he was fifty-seven, and stop doing this to himself. But for now, he needed to take inventory.

  He forced himself to concentrate. He remembered being at Club Dumont in North Hollywood and drinking tequila. He also remembered later digging into his cocaine stash. But tequila and cocaine by itself wouldn’t cause this wicked pray-for-death hangover. There must’ve been something else. He stopped his inventory when he heard someone stirring next to him.

  He lifted the pillow from his face and struggled to open his eyes enough so he could see the naked girl lying on his bed. He vaguely remembered her from last night. Very young and pretty. So he had taken Viagra too. He also remembered her giving him molly, and that it made his brain feel fuzzy. He needed to remember that tequila, coke, Viagra, and molly were not a good combination, at least if he didn’t want to suffer another morning like this one.

  He gingerly rolled onto his side so he could get a better look at the sweet young thing lying next to him, being careful to move his head at a glacial pace. She was lying on her stomach, but he could tell that she was more than just pretty. Simply luscious, no question about it. Dark brown hair, olive complexion, lithe body. How many shots of tequila did he have before he approached her? Eight? More than that? He must’ve given her his standard spiel. No doubt he told her he’d put her in the latest crap TV show he was directing, although he wouldn’t have used the word crap. Masterful. Suspenseful. Cutting edge. Some BS along those lines.

  He reached out and lightly traced a finger from her hip to her knee, feeling how cool her flesh felt and thinking about how he always liked them young. This one had to be at least twenty-five years his junior, maybe even more.

  Oh sweet Jesus, he moaned inwardly. While he liked them young, he needed them legal, and he started having an uneasy feeling this one might not be. He couldn’t afford to have another incident. It would be the end of his career in Hollywood. While he might only be directing the crappiest TV imaginable, it paid the bills.

  He carefully rolled off the bed, biting his tongue to keep from groaning out loud. He felt a greater sense of urgency than before, and he staggered through the bedroom searching for her pocketbook. When he didn’t find it, he slipped on a silk bathrobe and headed downstairs.

  He found her pocketbook among their clothing and he groaned when he saw a large red stain and a mostly empty wine glass lying on his one-of-a-kind $18,000 kidney-shaped white satin sofa. He groaned again when he spotted an empty $300 bottle of Burgundy that had been knocked over, leaving an even bigger stain on his cream-colored carpeting. What would have possessed him to open a bottle of wine last night after everything else he’d had? He decided he’d worry about that later. The carpeting could be replaced, and there was a chance the sofa could be either cleaned or reupholstered. For now, he had bigger fish to fry.

  Blankenford searched through her pocketbook and found her driver’s license. If the license was legit, the naked girl lying asleep (or passed out) in his bed was Mary Anne Callahan, age twenty-two, and with a Van Nuys address. She looked younger than that, but girls were looking younger to him all the time. Certainly a correlation of sorts with him becoming an old man. He could breathe easier now. His sofa and carpeting might’ve gotten ruined but at least he wouldn’t get mired in another scandal and lose his last chance of working in Hollywood.

  As he squinted at the license, something about it troubled him, and he soon realized what it was. The name Callahan didn’t fit with the olive-skinned girl he saw in his bed, and made him think that the license might be a fake. When he found the diamond engagement ring (no more than an eighth of a carat) and the slim gold wedding band that had been hidden away inside a zippered pouch, he understood why she had that last name. She was married. At least she was legal and he wouldn’t have to worry about another scandal like the one that had derailed his career fifteen years ago, but this still wasn’t good. He had sworn off married girls after the last one’s husband chased him naked out of his house with one of his own golf clubs. The guy would’ve killed him if he had caught up to him. Blankenford might often feel like an old geezer these days, but he could still run like the wind when he had an insanely jealous husband chasing him.

  He put the rings back in the pouch, zipped it up, and slipped her driver’s license back into her purse. With her pocketbook put back together, he started a pot of coffee brewing. A year ago he had bought a newer style coffee maker, one where you use prefabbed capsules to make a single cup, but he had too many mornings like this one where he knew he needed a whole pot if he was going to make it out of the house. With the coffee started, he checked that his robe was tied, then headed outside to get the newspaper. He was a dinosaur in that regard—he needed to start the day reading the newspaper while pouring copious amounts of coffee down his gullet.

  The sunlight nearly obliterated him, but he made it back into the house in one piece. He chuckled to himself as he thought he should get a dog for precisely this reason—to retrieve the morning paper for him when he was this hungover, which was most mornings. With that task accomplished, he shoved a handful of sugar packets into his bathrobe pocket and brought the newspaper, pot of coffee, and a mug to the breakfast nook he had set up in an area of the kitchen that did not get any direct morning sunlight.

  The first cup he drank, which included three sugar packets, helped clear some of the fuzziness from his head, and removed some of the sewer taste in his mouth. After a second cup, he was ready to take a look at the front page of the paper and saw that Faye Riverstone had been murdered by the madman who was terrorizing Los Angeles.

  What a bloody shame, he thought.

  He had directed her years ago when she was just a teenager. An exceptionally stunning girl even then, especially with those pouty lips, and he might’ve tried bedding her if he hadn’t just had his legal problems. Not only was she a breathtakingly beautiful seventeen-year-old, but she was smart enough to use a stage name for the movie, which was just simply awful.

  He settled back in his chair and thought more about the movie. It was the first job he was offered following the brouhaha that transpired when those parents accused him of sleeping with their fifteen-year-old nymphet daughter. While the charges were miraculously withdrawn after a hundred-grand payoff, he nonetheless felt lucky to be hired for any film, even one where the script was a complete mess and the budget a joke. Little did he realize back then that the movie would lead him down a road of awfulness. Well-paying awfulness, but still nothing but one piece of dreck after the next.

  For years Blankenford had tried to forget about the movie, but as he drank a third cup of coffee and read the rest of the article about poor, sweet Faye, his mind drifted back to the film. As frightfully bad as it was, it did have a talented cast, including several other budding actresses who, like Faye, were destined for stardom.

  “Dear Lord,” he whispered as he realized that other actresses from the film had also been killed by that madman. He was considering calling the police and notifying them about that fact when he heard footsteps. He looked up to see Mary
Anne Callahan walking into the kitchen wearing one of his T-shirts. While he was skinny, he had a long body. She couldn’t be more than five feet two, and the T-shirt came halfway down her thighs. Still, she looked self-conscious in it.

  “Hi,” Blankenford said with as much of a smile as he could manage. “Grab a mug and pour yourself some coffee before I finish off the pot.”

  She did just that, getting up on her toes so she could take a mug from the second shelf, her shirt riding up as she did so. Blankenford, being a gentleman, only gave her a quick, admiring look. After she sat down across from him and was sipping her coffee, he asked if she wanted anything to eat.

  “There might be some food in the fridge. Possibly even some eggs. If not, I could have breakfast delivered.”

  “Coffee’s all I want,” she said in a scratchy, unhappy voice.

  Blankenford frowned at her. “I didn’t tell you my superpower last night did I?” he asked.

  She looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “It failed me last night, because tequila is my kryptonite. But I have the uncanny power to look at a pretty young girl and know whether she’s married, and as I look at you in the light of day, my superpower is beeping like crazy.”

  She opened her eyes wide as if she were impressed, and then just as quickly they glazed. “You went through my purse,” she said.

  He smiled. “Guilty as charged. But it doesn’t change the fact that you deceived me.”

  She smirked. “You wouldn’t have brought me back here last night if you knew I was married?”

  “I might very well have, because you are gorgeous and, as I mentioned earlier, tequila is my kryptonite. Really one of many, if I were to be honest about it. But it doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t realize I was committing adultery.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not telling my husband anything.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that. But won’t he be curious as to your whereabouts last night?”

  “No, he won’t be.” Anger darkened her face. “He’s in Vegas for a bachelor party. I’m sure he spent the night screwing hookers.” She choked up, as if thoughts of what her husband might be doing right then was too much for her to bear. Then in an accusatory tone she demanded to know whether he was really going to give her a part in a TV show.

  “I would never lie about something like that,” he promised her.

  Blankenford got up from the nook so he could grab a slip of paper and a pen. He wrote down a phone number and handed her the slip.

  “Call me Tuesday,” he said. “It won’t be a big part, probably no more than ten seconds of screen time, but you’ll get a credit.”

  The part he had in mind was as Dead Girl #2. He was sure the executive producer would let him give it to her if he insisted.

  Her mood softened, and Blankenford understood why. Last night, with the help of booze and drugs, she had believed him when he promised her a part, otherwise she would’ve picked one of the young studs at Club Dumont to get back at hubby, no matter how charming and wealthy he might be. In the cold, sober reality of the day, she had likewise convinced herself that he had fed her a line, like so many people in this town do. Well, Dead Girl #2 might not be much of a part, but you never knew what might catch a casting director’s eye and lead to stardom. She might or might not have any talent, but she certainly had the looks.

  “My husband’s flight home isn’t until later this afternoon,” she said. “Do you want to go back upstairs?”

  “You’re a vision of loveliness,” Blankenford said. “But I don’t think it would be wise for us to tempt fate.”

  She nodded as if she understood what he was saying.

  Chapter 54

  Philip Stonehedge waited a fraction of a second too long to pretend he didn’t recognize that it was Margot Denoir recording a segment by the ocean’s edge. She was waving at him, and then running toward him. Her camera crew stayed where they were.

  Margot was wearing a navy blue suit with a skirt that came down just above the knees and, as a concession for being at the beach, she wore flats instead of her usual high heels. Margot was notorious for wearing heels when she was on TV because of how well they showcased her well-toned calves. Still, even in flats, it must’ve been a struggle running on sand, and she was breathing heavily by the time she reached him. Even though it was windy, her well-coifed blond hair didn’t budge. It could’ve just as well been made of plastic.

  “Margot, what a surprise,” the actor said with a false smile as if he meant it.

  “I know, Philip, darling. How wonderful!” she said, beaming, and barely containing her excitement.

  They hugged and air kissed each other on the cheeks.

  “Margot Denoir. The hardest-working woman in television,” Stonehedge said. “I thought you’d be spending today basking in the glow of your triumph last night.”

  “A thirty-eight-local share,” she said.

  The actor whistled. “You killed it.”

  She smiled wryly. “I had help from your friend, Morris Brick, his adorable brute of a dog, and of course, the actual killer.”

  “Just terrible what has happened,” Stonehedge said, his tone turning solemn. “Drea, Faye, and Heather all gone because of that freak.” Putting his acting skills to good use, he asked as if he were clueless about what the answer would be, “What are you and your crew doing here on a Malibu beach?”

  “A tip.” Her smile turned into something sly. “I heard that SPMK broke into one of the mansions along the East Coast Pacific Highway and escaped using the beach.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “That’s what I’m being told. It made me wonder whether it was your mansion. I tried buzzing your gate an hour ago, but nobody answered.”

  Stonehedge smiled as if she had to be joking. “Why would you think that?”

  “It occurred to me given his other victims that Brie might be next on his list. And since she is your girlfriend—”

  “Friend,” Stonehedge corrected.

  Margot made a face over his insisting on lying about Hollywood’s worst-kept secret. “If you say so. How is Brie?”

  “She’s well.”

  “Hmm. I was wondering because she’s not answering her cell phone, nor the buzzer at either of her residences.”

  “I believe she’s at Palm Springs this weekend.”

  Margot gave him a look as if she knew he was lying, but didn’t pursue it any further. “Darling, my imagination must’ve gotten the better of me. It’s a relief to know that Brie wasn’t harmed by this monster.” She took a step closer to him. The way she looked at him right then made him feel like he was an insect she was studying under a magnifying glass. “Did something happen to your right eye?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “It looks red. Like you’ve been poked in it.”

  “Nothing happened. Must just be allergies.”

  Her eyes dulled just enough to show she didn’t believe him, but she let the matter drop and instead smiled sweetly at him. It really was a nice smile, and if he didn’t know her better he might’ve forgotten that there was little difference between her and a piranha. At least if you gave the piranha a cute ass and stunning legs.

  She said, “I was hoping you’d do me an enormous favor. I know that at one time you were romantically linked with SPMK’s victims.”

  “I dated Drea years ago. The stuff about me and Faye were rumors, and nothing else.” His brow furrowed as he thought more about it. “I did act with Heather once in a film. A lovely woman.”

  “Still, I would be so grateful if you’d let me interview you about your remembrances of these three wonderful actresses.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, darling, of course. The beach would be a perfect location for it.”

  Stonehedge knew what she really wanted to do wa
s sandbag him on the air. She’d gotten more than a tip, otherwise she wouldn’t have been trying to hunt Brie down. If he agreed to the interview, she’d go from piranha to pit bull and wouldn’t give up until she shook the truth out of him.

  “Sorry, luv,” he said. “But my head’s in a funny place after what happened to Drea, and I need some solitude right now. A walk on the beach is about all I can handle. But it’s been lovely seeing you. As always.”

  He turned from her and ignored her protestations as he continued his hike along the beach. While his neighbor swore she didn’t have any surveillance video from last night, he wasn’t sure he believed her. Even if TMZ didn’t air video of him naked and out of his mind with worry as he buzzed the security gate, the story was going to come out soon, and Margot would be furious with him for not giving her an exclusive scoop this morning. But Morris had asked him if he could keep it quiet for now, and so he planned to do exactly that. Besides, Brie would want to be with him when they told their story. Maybe the two of them would reward Margot later with another prime-time special. If you were an actor you did not want Margot unhappy with you. That little blond dynamo held a lot of power in Hollywood.

  It was a three-mile hike from the town beach parking lot to the cliff that bordered his property, and Stonehedge was lost in his private thoughts as he continued his trek. The events from last night still didn’t seem real. Instead they were like a nightmarish delusion, as if he’d had a bad peyote trip. He still couldn’t believe he’d grabbed that freak’s wrist when he did. He was mostly asleep when it happened, but he’d still somehow managed that. If he hadn’t, he’d be dead. Brie would be dead. Those thoughts made him shiver, even with the strong California sun beating down on him.

  After leaving Margot, he had moved to the shoreline, and the waves at times ran up above his knees. He barely noticed. When he recognized the three sycamores that grew on the left side of his property, he walked toward the cliff. The wind hadn’t yet erased the imprint in the sand the freak made when he landed. One foot closer to the cliff face, and he would’ve hit rocks instead and died.