by Jacob Stone
“I guess it would help if I introduced myself,” the intruder said, shaking his head over his indiscretion. “Do you mind?”
The intruder had nodded toward a nearby chair. Blankenford gestured for him to sit, and the intruder shuffled over to the chair, moving with his legs bent in an extremely bowlegged way, as if he were imitating a crab. The director guessed the man must’ve hurt his knees, maybe his ankles too. He noticed the thick bandage wrapped around the man’s right wrist.
“God only knows what you must be thinking having some strange dude walk into your private backyard like this,” the intruder said with an amused grin. “My name’s Marty Luce. I’m a detective working out of LAPD’s homicide division on those crazy killings being done by the guy they’re calling SPMK.”
“Your name sounds familiar,” Blankenford said. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t know. I worked vice before homicide. Could I have run into you then?”
Blankenford thought about it, and decided it was just one of those names. On closer inspection, he also realized this wasn’t someone sweet Mary Anne would’ve married. She would’ve hitched up with a young stud closer to her age. Someone much better looking. Bigger and broader also. This guy was too scrawny for someone like Mary Anne.
“Sex Pervert Maniac Killer,” Blankenford said as he remembered what SPMK stood for.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Quite a mouthful, huh?” Luce chuckled to himself. “You’d think the media could’ve come up with something easier on the tongue, like the Star Killer. That name would’ve made so much more sense, especially since the whole pervert stuff is a lie that us cops are spreading.”
“Really? Why would you guys lie about that?”
“A tactic we’re using to get under his skin. Between you and me, this guy’s too smart to fall for something like that.”
Blankenford cleared his throat and sat up straighter in the lounge chair. “What exactly are you here for, detective?”
“It would help if I told you that, huh?” Luce again shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe the way he’d been acting. “The media hasn’t gotten ahold of this yet, but this guy, the Star Killer—”
“You mean SPMK?”
Luce made a face. “Again, not a good name. But whatever.” He seemed to lose his train of thought, and Blankenford prompted him about what the media didn’t know.
“Yeah, sorry about that. This guy’s absolutely brilliant, and he’s got us chasing around in circles so much he’s leaving all of us dizzy. But as I was saying, he tried to abduct Brie Evans last night—”
“My God! Brie also? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Not even a scratch. But it made me think about this funny coincidence. The three actresses he killed, plus Brie Evans, were all in a movie you made.”
“The Satan Plan,” Blankenford said. “Dreadful film.”
“I don’t know. I saw it when it came out and thought it was pretty good.”
“So you’re the one.”
“Ha ha. Good one. But I’m thinking it might not be so much a coincidence. This guy might be targeting the actresses from your movie.”
“I had the same thought earlier when I saw in today’s paper that SPMK killed Faye Riverstone,” Blankenford said.
“You mean the Star Killer.”
“The maniac,” Blankenford conceded.
“Did you call the police about that thought?”
“I was going to, but I got distracted,” Blankenford admitted.
“No harm done. But I’m thinking he might not be after just the blond bimbo actresses from the film. You might be in danger too.”
Blankenford looked alarmed by that prospect. Up until that moment he’d only been worried about enraged husbands chasing after him. Because Mary Anne Callahan wasn’t the only married young thing he’d slept with over the past year.
“Should I be getting police protection?” he asked.
“That’s something we need to talk about. How about we go inside? I’m sweating like a pig out here.”
“Sure. Certainly.”
Blankenford didn’t need to see the cop’s eyes to know the guy was stoned. Not weed, though. If he had to guess, this Luce character had shot up with heroin, and was now floating. Blankenford had learned long ago that the right cops could help you score weed and coke, or if they weren’t holding, could point you to someone who was, and because of that he always made it a point to cozy up to the cops working security details or other jobs on the TV shows and movies he directed. Over the years he had gotten blotto drunk more than a few times with cops he had gotten to know, and had even done coke with some of them. Because of this, the thought of a cop being a heroin junkie didn’t seem impossible. Or maybe Luce wasn’t shooting up, but instead using prescription opioids.
As Blankenford led Luce through the patio doors and into the kitchen, he couldn’t help thinking something was wrong. The guy just didn’t seem like any cop he’d ever known. More than that, there was something off-putting about him. But if he wasn’t a cop, who was he?
Blankenford realized then why the cop’s name had sounded so familiar. Martin Luce was the name of the madman from The Satan Plan. He stumbled in his panic as he understood who this man really was.
He gave a little scream as he lunged for the open bottle of tequila sitting on the countertop, and grabbed the bottle by the neck. What slowed him down for a brief half second was worrying about all the tequila that would spill out when he swung the bottle at the psycho masquerading as a cop.
That half second was all the killer needed to stick a hunting knife into Blankenford’s kidney.
Chapter 58
Morris had never met a geology professor before so he had no idea what to expect, but if he didn’t know better he would’ve guessed Andrew Hastings was a retired cop instead of a university professor. A large rough-hewn man with a bald head, craggy face, and bushy steel-gray mustache. On second thought, Morris decided it made perfect sense for a geology professor to physically resemble a rock formation.
Hastings’s hands were heavily veined, and a twinkle lit up his eyes as he greeted Morris at the door and welcomed him into his house.
“I saw you on TV last night,” Hastings said, his voice as craggy and rough as his features. “I’m more than a little curious why you’re interested in that movie I consulted on.”
“The reason’s simple. I’d like to know whether blowing up oil wells around LA could trigger a massive earthquake.”
“I figured as much, but why? What does that have to do with this madman you’re chasing?”
“What I’m telling you is confidential,” Morris said. “And I’d like to ask that you keep it as such.”
“Of course.”
“The psycho seems to be a fan of The Satan Plan.”
“Jesus,” Hastings mouthed, his eyes taking on a faraway look as if he were remembering something from years ago. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but those young actresses he murdered were all in the film.”
“We also believe he’s in possession of six hundred pounds of stolen C-4.”
“And you think he’s planning to use it to blow up oil wells? Six hundred pounds of C-4. Jesus.” Hastings didn’t need much time to think about it before telling Morris it could be disastrous.
“How many oil wells do you think there are within a thirty-mile radius of Los Angeles?” he asked.
“I’ve noticed a few,” Morris said.
“Thirty-five hundred. Let’s go to my study so I can demonstrate with computer simulation what would happen if as few as forty of them were blown up.”
As the geology professor led Morris through his home, he asked Morris how many earthquakes he thought Oklahoma had had during the past year.
“Half a dozen?” Morris guessed.
“Over eighteen hundred. Do you wa
nt to guess what caused these earthquakes?”
“They were manmade?”
“Yep. And not by blowing up oil wells, but by injecting wastewater into disposal wells. But what they’re doing in Oklahoma is child’s play compared to what we’re talking about here. Blowing up forty oil wells would introduce a significant stress along the San Andreas fault lines, and if my work in the area is correct, it would force the North American tectonic plate under the Pacific tectonic plate.”
“That would be bad?”
“I’d say so.”
Hastings brought Morris into his study, which was cluttered with papers and stacks of books, and had framed magazine covers and articles hung on the walls. The geology professor took a seat at the computer in a worn but comfortable-looking leather chair, and Morris pulled up a chair alongside him. The computer was already on, and Hastings brought up a map of California. After a few mouse clicks, a thick red line stretching from northern California almost to Brawley in the southernmost part of the state overlaid the map.
“The San Andreas fault line,” Hastings explained.
After another couple of mouse clicks, another red line was drawn, this one running over the Salton Sea so that it appeared parallel to the San Andreas Fault.
“The Salton Trough Fault,” Hastings said.
After more mouse clicks, more faults lines were drawn on the map.
“As you can see, Southern California has a good deal of seismic activity. Blowing up and, in effect, setting fire to oil wells around LA would create a major geological disturbance. Let me demonstrate.”
After more mouse clicks, thousands of tiny dots representing oil wells were drawn on the map.
“I worked with a certain government agency to develop this software, the name of which I’m not at liberty to tell you,” Hastings said, his voice heavier and rougher than earlier. “I’m going to select forty wells from Long Beach to LA, and we’ll see what the effect will be if, say, eight pounds of C-4 are used on each of them.”
“Why eight pounds?”
Hastings grimaced as if he were suffering from a bad case of heartburn. “If I remember right, that was what was used in the movie.”
Morris’s cell phone rang. Annie Walsh. He excused himself and left the study so he could talk privately. When he answered the phone, Walsh told him that someone had robbed the downtown Ritegreens using a hand grenade.
“He wanted painkillers,” Morris guessed.
“That’s right. A thirty-day supply of OxyContin. Also a couple of knee braces and elastic bandages.”
“Did he kill anyone there?”
“He exploded two grenades. The pharmacist took some shrapnel and is at UCLA Medical. He’s shook up pretty bad, but he’ll live. Miraculously no one else was hurt.”
“When did this happen?”
“Over an hour ago.”
“A hand grenade was used and we’re just finding out now?”
Walsh let out a pronounced sigh. “What can I say?”
“Okay, forget it. Who’s handling it from LAPD’s end?”
“I am.”
“I’ll send over one of my guys. Fred or Polk, your choice?”
“Do I need to tell you?”
“No, you don’t. I think I know what this psycho’s endgame is. He’s planning to blow up oil wells. He thinks it will cause a massive earthquake that will destroy LA.”
There was a heavy silence from Walsh’s end. Then, “Any chance he’s right?”
“I’m talking right now with a UCLA professor who thinks it could happen. I’ll call Fred about Ritegreens and will call you back when I know more.”
Morris got off the phone with Walsh and called Lemmon, who answered on the first ring.
“I got to MBI a little while ago,” Lemmon said. “Adam filled me in on what’s going on. You think this lunatic is really trying to cause an earthquake?”
“I don’t know,” Morris admitted. “Right now I’m working on that assumption. An hour ago, he robbed the downtown Ritegreens using grenades. He wanted OxyContin.”
“So he hurt himself when he jumped off the cliff behind your actor buddy’s property.”
“It appears so.”
“And if he’s got the stolen grenades he’s probably also got the stolen C-4.”
“Again, that’s the assumption. Annie’s working the robbery, and I want you to work it with her.”
“Okay, will do. Morris, just as well you’re giving me this. I hit a wall looking at guys with grudges against you. I don’t think you have any history with this guy. If he has a beef with you, it’s in his head only.”
“I’m thinking that as well.”
Morris put his cell phone away and joined Hastings in the study. The geology professor gave him a quick sideways glance and commented that from Morris’s expression, the news he got didn’t appear to be good.
“More confirmation that he has the stolen C-4.”
“I figured as much. I’ve got everything set up, but I suspect the results won’t cheer you up any.”
The UCLA professor used the mouse to press a button labeled “Start.” After several seconds, the number 9.2 flashed on the screen.
“I’m guessing that’s not good news either,” Morris said.
“No. it’s not. That’s the magnitude earthquake the simulation is predicting. To put that number in perspective, we expect the shifting of the tectonic plates to eventually cause a 7.0 magnitude earthquake, which LA will be able to handle with a minimal amount of damage. An 8.0 magnitude earthquake would release thirty times more energy, and would cause approximately two hundred billion dollars’ worth of damage and a death toll estimated at two thousand lives. An event that causes subduction—forcing one tectonic plate below another—is a whole different ball game, and a 9.0 magnitude earthquake would release a thousand times more energy.”
“What would the damage be?”
“Catastrophic. Toppled buildings, gas mains and water lines rupturing, fires raging. Death toll in the hundreds of thousands.” Hastings showed a pained smile as he rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb. When he stopped, his eyes had a reddish look. “But this is only a simulation. Purely theoretical. It might not work out this way.”
The look he gave Morris showed he didn’t believe that to be the case.
Chapter 59
Charlie Bogle didn’t bother getting a search warrant for Pettibone’s studio apartment, and instead tracked down the building’s live-in superintendent. He flashed the super his old LAPD police badge, and explained to him about Pettibone’s suspected involvement with the maniac who was killing Hollywood actresses.
“There was something about that guy I never liked,” the super said, nodding to himself over this confirmation. “Always an unfriendly puss on his face. Not once ever saying a kind word.”
“It’s worse than that. We think he wired up his apartment with explosives to blow up the building.”
The super was a short, stocky man in his forties, and he gave Bogle a look as if he had to be kidding. “This ain’t some sort of joke?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, no. That’s the evidence we got.”
The last part was a lie, but only a little one. Bogle remembered Pettibone’s churlish disposition when he met the man at the oil well, and he thought it likely that if Pettibone was planting explosives in oil wells, he’d save some for his apartment.
The super started blinking nervously as he realized that Bogle was serious. “Don’t you need a search warrant?” he asked.
“Not at all. As a representative of the building’s owner, you can let me in.”
“Yeah, okay.” More rapid blinking. “Should I be knocking on doors and getting people out of here?”
“Not a bad idea. How about you give me the key to the apartment, and I’ll bring it back to you when I’m do
ne.”
The super’s hands shook as he struggled to remove a key from a large chain he kept attached to a belt loop. Once he handed over the key, the super hurried away.
Pettibone had a first-floor apartment, and as Bogle walked up a flight of stairs from the basement where the super lived, he wondered what the odds were that Pettibone had a bomb in his apartment. He decided it was less than fifty percent for the simple reason that Pettibone most likely went missing because the psycho killer got rid of him. It wasn’t any accident that the anonymous call about “Reuben” came from Buena Park, the same city where Pettibone lived. If Pettibone was working with Reuben, he must’ve thought about turning the guy in for a reward after he saw the trumped-up news stories about the killer’s sexual deviancies. Maybe he tried squeezing extra money out of Reuben. If that was the case, he could’ve gotten himself killed before he had a chance to rig his apartment up with C-4. But even if all that was true, there could still be a bomb.
Bogle stood motionless in front of Pettibone’s apartment door and wondered if there was a bomb what the likelihood was that it would be rigged up to explode if someone opened the door. That type of trigger would be a lot more work than setting one up to work off a timer or a cell phone call. Bogle decided if there was a bomb it would be triggered by a cell phone, since that would be the easiest trigger to rig up and Pettibone would know for sure when it went off. Even though Bogle knew this made sense, he held his breath after unlocking the door, then stood motionless for a good ten count with his hand on the doorknob.
His cell phone rang suddenly and it nearly gave him a heart attack. He frowned at the caller ID. Mark Sangonese was calling.
“I just searched the last well Pettibone serviced and there was no bomb,” Sangonese complained. “This is not how I want to be spending my Sunday.”
“That’s only one well,” Bogle said. “Check more of them, okay?”
Sangonese hung up.
Bogle took another deep breath and carefully turned the doorknob, trying to feel for any resistance. The door clicked open, and no explosion. He opened it a crack, then slid the letter he had showed Sangonese earlier from the top of the door to the bottom trying to find a trip wire. After that he ever-so-gently opened the door, his heart thumping crazily by the time he was done.