by Jacob Stone
“Okay,” he whispered to himself to calm down. “No explosives yet.”
He had brought a Phillips screwdriver with him, but Pettibone had a small tool chest in his apartment, and Bogle used tools from that to take the closet door off its hinges and the back off the dresser bureau. He worked cautiously, but he didn’t find any C-4 that had been rigged to explode. He did, though, find hidden in the sock drawer an authentic-looking passport for Robert Jones with Pettibone’s picture. In the same drawer, he also found an airplane ticket to Bangkok, Thailand, that was supposed to leave LAX that morning at seven fifteen.
He turned on Pettibone’s laptop computer and was trying different passwords to unlock it when he received another call from Mark Sangonese. This time he barely recognized the Samson Oil & Gas manager’s voice. It sounded tinny and unnatural.
“I couldn’t hear what you said,” Bogle told him.
Sangonese cleared his throat. “One of my guys found a package at another well,” he said. “It was hidden behind one of the compressors. It’s square, and he doesn’t know what’s in it, but it weighs about ten pounds.”
Chapter 60
Polk thought the metallic black Bentley sedan parked in MBI’s lot stuck out like a sore thumb. It didn’t surprise him when he found one of the killer’s fercockta cards stuck under the windshield wiper. He called Morris.
“Our twisted friend left a Bentley in our parking lot,” he said. “He also left you one of his calling cards. Here’s what he wrote: Brick, unless you’re a lot smarter than I think you are, the beginning of the end starts today at four p.m.”
“You said this was left on a Bentley?”
“Yeah, pretty fancy-looking car.”
“Hmm. Unfortunately, I have an idea what’s in the trunk, but have the bomb squad check it out. I should be back in the office in twenty minutes.”
“Will do.”
Polk kept his distance from the Bentley in case either some of the missing C-4 or one or more grenades were being used as a booby trap, and made a call to the bomb squad. After they arrived and secured the area, he headed inside to MBI’s office suite. A few minutes later he was talking to Adam Felger when Morris arrived.
“Bomb squad still doing their thing?” Polk asked.
Morris told him that when he had pulled into the lot they were drilling a hole in the trunk so they could look inside. “Do we know whose car it is?” he asked.
“Computer boy figured it out,” Polk said. “A TV director.”
“The one who directed The Satan Plan?”
“The same one,” Felger said.
Morris heard the outer door for the suite open, and he left Felger and Polk to find one of the bomb squad members looking for him.
“There’s no bomb in the trunk,” the officer said. “But there is a body. Male, in his fifties.”
That was pretty much what Morris was expecting. He called Annie Walsh to let her know, then grabbed Polk and the two of them headed back to the parking lot to meet Todd Blankenford, the director of The Satan Plan. The bomb squad had left, but in their place were plenty of LAPD officers and crime scene specialists. Morris had a quick talk with one of the detectives, and he and Polk then had a look at what was inside the Bentley’s trunk.
“You’d think a luxury vehicle like this would have more trunk space,” Polk noted.
Morris had to agree with him. The trunk did not appear to be very spacious, and Blankenford, who was wearing only a silk robe, looked as if his body had been folded in half so it could be crammed into the space.
“Stabbed in the back,” Morris said. “I count seven wounds.”
“Not a lot of blood,” Polk noted.
“He must’ve bled out where he was stabbed.”
“Four to one odds the killer got this poor sap at his home? Fifty bucks?”
“I’ll pass.”
Polk looked deep in thought as he rubbed the three-days’ worth of stubble growing on his chin. He was either contemplating how the murder must’ve gone down or trying to come up with a way to tempt Morris into taking what he thought was a sucker’s bet. If it was the latter, he gave up on it. “Crime scene guys are going to find a mess there,” he said.
Morris slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He had noticed a slight bulge of something small and rectangular inside the bathrobe’s pocket, and what he found was a flash drive.
* * * *
Fred Lemmon headed first to the downtown Ritegreens, which was busy with police, ATF agents, and FBI. He spotted Greg Malevich near the front entrance, and the detective escorted him to the back of the drugstore so he could see the damage. First up was the destruction from the grenade that exploded in the aisle. Lemmon was amazed at what he saw. The grenade didn’t just blow a hole through the aisle, but obliterated it, and left the carpeting scorched, the metal racks twisted and torn, and cold remedy bottles blown to pieces.
“There’s no surveillance video from inside the store,” Malevich explained. “When the first grenade went off, it sent the few people in the store ducking for cover, so no one saw the perp throwing the second one.”
Lemmon nodded toward the back door. “He left through there?”
“Yeah.”
“He must’ve tossed the grenade behind him when he was leaving so no one would follow him.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“Any outdoor video?”
“Yeah, but nothing that’s going to help much. We got the perp leaving the store and walking with his knees splayed—bowlegged-like. He must’ve injured himself when he jumped off the cliff behind Philip’s property. That’s got to be the reason he wanted the opioids. But the video doesn’t show him getting into a vehicle.”
“Philip, huh? You’re on a first name basis with Mr. Hollywood?”
Malevich broke into a grin. “Yeah, you could say so. I spent some time with him six months ago during that Malibu Butcher business. A helluva nice guy who doesn’t act like the typical hotshot actor.”
Lemmon let out a soft whistle when he saw the pharmacy area. Debris was scattered throughout, and the grenade left a large blackened hole where a sink had been along the back wall.
Although it wasn’t necessary, Malevich explained what happened. “The perp dropped the grenade so it landed next to the pharmacist, but he got lucky and was able to toss it into the sink that used to be back there. If he had put too much muscle into the toss, the grenade would’ve bounced back at him and he’d be dead now. Or at least missing several body pieces.”
“Not so lucky. He still picked up shrapnel.”
“Better than the alternative.”
Lemmon wasn’t so sure. It would’ve been better if the store hadn’t gotten robbed. Or if the maniac hadn’t dropped the grenade in the first place. Or for the pharmacist’s sake, if he had called in sick that morning.
“So what’s the plan?”
Malevich made a face as if he didn’t have a good answer, or at least one that he liked.
“We’ve got officers canvassing for anyone who spotted the perp getting into a car,” he said.
Lemmon didn’t bother pointing out the obvious. That if any witnesses spotted the killer doing this, the odds were good they’d get the make of the car wrong. And even if a witness thought there was something suspicious about the guy and tried to pay attention to the license plate, they’d get that wrong too. It was tough enough for trained police officers to get the license plates right.
After Ritegreens, Lemmon headed to UCLA Medical Center where he found Annie Walsh alone in a waiting area. He took a seat next to her.
“Did you hear from Morris about the latest?” she asked.
“The Bentley? Yeah, he called me.”
“This psycho’s been busy,” she forced out through clenched lips.
“I guess he didn’t like the movie,” Lemmon observed. �
��By killing the director and most of the stars, they won’t be able to make a sequel.”
“Funny,” she said, although she didn’t appear to be amused. “You’ve been hanging around Polk too much.”
“Ouch. Sadly, that’s probably true, although the accusation still wounds deeply.”
Her expression weakened. “Did Morris tell you what he thinks this psycho is trying to do?”
“Cause a massive earthquake? Yeah, he told me.”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
Lemmon shrugged. “The guy’s bat-guano crazy. I wouldn’t bet on it. How come we’re sitting out here?”
“The doctor needed to sedate the victim. She’ll let us know when we can talk to him.”
For the next seventeen minutes Walsh appeared lost in her private thoughts while Lemmon stared at his hands. He’d been carrying a torch for her from the moment he met her after joining the homicide/robbery department, but he was married then. He still was, at least technically. The last few years things had become shaky between him and Corrine. That didn’t matter. Whatever feelings he had toward Walsh, he was determined to keep bottled up.
A doctor entered the waiting area and told them they could talk to the patient. “He’s heavily sedated right now, but he’s lucid.”
They were brought to a private room. The pharmacist was lying in bed with thick bandages wrapped around his arm, middle, and thigh.
“Mr. Singer? My name’s Detective Walsh, and this is a private investigator, Fred Lemmon. We’re here to talk to you about what happened today at Ritegreens.”
The man’s eyes opened wide. He was in his thirties, and under normal circumstances might’ve seemed more robust, but he looked frail lying in the hospital bed.
“I was never so scared in my life,” he said in the slow cadence of someone who’d been heavily sedated. “That man dropped a hand grenade right next to me. It could’ve killed me.”
“We know.”
“It didn’t explode right away. I was able to pick it up and throw it behind me, and I covered my head with my arms. I was told the grenade landed in the sink. That’s the only reason I wasn’t hurt worse.”
It was only a matter of routine since they knew the killer they were chasing was the one who had robbed the drugstore, but Walsh showed him the two police sketches they had.
“He wasn’t bald, and didn’t have blond hair either.” Singer squinted as if he were trying to picture the man’s face. “He had red hair and a beard. Also, his nose was much bigger. Crooked too. And his chin was pointy and longer. But he told me who he was.”
“He gave you a name?” Walsh asked, surprised.
“No, not that. But he told me he was the one killing those actresses.” Singer looked confused and bit down on his thumb as if he were trying to remember something. “No, that’s not right. He didn’t say it like that. But that’s what he meant from the way he looked at me when he told me I must’ve recognized him.”
“Did he have any resemblance to the sketches?”
Singer frowned as he looked again at the sketches. “He was wearing dark sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. Maybe the shape of his face if you ignore his chin.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“He didn’t seem to know anything about OxyContin,” Singer said. “He asked for a thirty-day supply, but he didn’t specify the dosage.” He blinked several times. “I gave him the highest one. A hundred and sixty milligrams. That’s meant for people with an opioid tolerance.”
That interested Lemmon. “What happens when he takes it?”
“If he doesn’t have a tolerance?”
“Yeah.”
“It depends on how many he takes at one time. If he only takes one, the immediate effects could be feelings of euphoria, drowsiness, lethargy, nausea, and respiratory depression.”
“What do you mean respiratory depression? He could stop breathing?”
“It’s possible.”
“Let’s hope that’s what happens,” Walsh said.
“What happens if he takes more than one?”
“Three hundred and twenty milligrams for someone with no tolerance could be lethal. At the very least, it should knock him out for a good long while. Maybe even put him in a coma. Definitely lethal if he chews on a pill instead of swallowing it.”
“One can only wish,” Lemmon said.
“Amen,” Walsh added.
Chapter 61
“The best-laid plans,” the killer murmured under his breath as he worked to alter the Rube Goldberg machine into something deadly. This was the machine he had constructed in the front of his workshop. The harmless one. But it was always meant to be made into a killing machine, so the killer didn’t have to make too many changes to it.
As he oh-so-carefully added a special trip wire to the machine, he realized he’d lost his train of thought. This had been happening often since he took the OxyContin. Given how hazy his mind had become, it was a good thing he had only taken one pill instead of the two he’d originally planned. He remembered then that he was going to say something about mice and men, and that got him giggling. Men were soon going to be dying by the thousands, but so were mice. Rats and cats and dogs also. Cockroaches were probably going to be spared. LA would be burning to the ground, but cockroaches would find a way to scuttle to safe places, just as the killer had his plan for escape.
He stopped and tilted his head as he tried to think what any of that had to do with mice and men. He giggled again as he remembered what he was going to say. The best-laid plans of mice and men. He’d been giggling a lot since taking that pill. He didn’t giggle when he threw the grenades. Later he did when he was alone in the car and remembered the way that pharmacist looked when he showed him the grenade. Eyes bugging out. It was like something from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon. He hadn’t seen one of those since he was a little kid, but he used to like them. The way one event would lead to the next. Kind of like a Rube Goldberg machine.
The killer lost his train of thought again. Something about giggling. He remembered that he had giggled when he stuck the knife into that movie director’s back. It wasn’t exactly funny, but it sort of was. The way the knife just seemed to go in so easily, like he was pushing it into a warmed-up tub of butter. The little yelp the director gave was also kind of funny, at least it struck the killer as such. Also, the way Blankenfart, or whatever his name was, just seemed to crumple to the floor. The killer stuck the knife into him more times to see if he’d find that funny also. He didn’t, although he still giggled with each thrust.
He knew it was the OxyContin making him silly, because he acted like a goofball with Blankenfart, which had to be why the guy realized at the last moment the killer wasn’t a cop. He could be excused for his behavior. He’d always been a straight arrow, and had never tried any recreational drugs before, not even as much as a puff of weed. He’d also never taken any prescription painkillers. This was all new to him. The opioid might be muddling up his thoughts, but at least he could move around and squat and kneel and do all the other things he needed to do, even though he was walking awfully funny. There wasn’t much chance he would’ve been able to get Blankenfart’s body into the trunk of the Bentley if he hadn’t taken the OxyContin. Or climb a ladder like he did minutes ago. His knees and ankles were a mess, and he was going to be in a great deal of pain when the medication wore off, but he’d worry about that later. Because something very big was soon going to be happening.
What was that again about mice and men?
He stopped what he was doing and squeezed his eyes tight, trying hard to cut through the fog in his brain. He was determined to remember. It just seemed important that he do so. He didn’t giggle this time as the answer came to him. Death. So many of them were going to die. He hoped Morris Brick wasn’t going to be one of them. He wanted Brick to witness the devastation. He wanted hi
s nemesis crushed by the knowledge that he had failed to save anyone. Unless Brick was a complete idiot, he must’ve made the connection with what the killer was doing and the movie The Satan Plan, but that wasn’t going to help him. By the time Brick realized who the killer was, it would all be over.
If Brick survived what was coming, he’d find this studio eventually, maybe weeks from now, and the killer wanted to make sure everything was ready for when that happened.
The killer broke out giggling over the idea of Brick being killed by his very last Rube Goldberg machine.
Chapter 62
The flash drive the killer had left in Todd Blankenford’s robe contained a single video file. Morris played it for the MBI team and Gloria Finston. The video file was a scene from The Satan Plan, and it showed LA hit by a massive earthquake.
“Kind of cheesy filmmaking if you ask me,” Polk remarked, unimpressed.
“True, but according to UCLA Professor Andrew Hastings, an accurate depiction of what will happen if he blows up as few as forty oil wells. Charlie, what did the bomb squad determine about the package hidden in the well outside of Torrance?”
Bogle had already told Morris about this, but he reported to the rest of the room that it was a bomb made with ten pounds of C-4. “He used a triggering device that’s activated by a sequence of radio frequencies.”
Finston asked, “Will they be able to search all the oil wells by four o’clock?”
“Not a chance. Since the Kansas armory robbery, Brad Pettibone serviced a hundred and eighty-seven different wells. If the search is limited to only those, the police expect it will take over twenty-four hours to clear them.”
“Even if they could do it by four, what are the odds this wackadoodle will play fair and wait until then?” Polk asked.
“Not good,” Finston admitted.