“Were you close to Mr. Rubio, ma’am?” Erica asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Maddie Grover, Craig was my older brother.”
“Do you know if your brother received any threats other than the black envelope that was mentioned?”
Maddie Grover broke eye contact as she answered. “I live nearby, but we weren’t on speaking terms the last dozen years or so. Since you’re the FBI, I would guess you can imagine why.”
“Because of his conviction for child molestation,” Erica said, and Maddie Grover nodded.
They took down her contact information and told her they might be in touch. Before leaving, Maddie Grover asked a question.
“Is there any chance that you’ll catch the man who killed my brother?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Erica said. “We will do our best.”
Maddie shuddered as she looked over at the house. “Craig must have been out of his mind with panic at the end. He was afraid of water, because he nearly drowned in a pond when we were little.”
The agents shared a look. Did the killer choose drowning as a method of execution because he knew it would be more torturous for his victim? If so, that would indicate a personal motive, rather than a random killing. It would also denote that revenge could be the motive for the slaying.
“How many people would know that your brother had a fear of water?”
Maddie shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but I wouldn’t think it would be many… Craig had no friends, and the family barely spoke to him. My brother was a sad case.”
Erica and Owens offered their condolences for her loss and Maddie smiled forlornly.
“We lost Craig a long time ago.”
Erica told Owens that she would drive, and they headed to Pennsylvania.
In Manhattan, Ted Marx was informed by the doorman in his building that he had an uninvited guest.
“She says her name is Miranda Marx, sir.”
A loud exhalation could be heard over the phone. Miranda was Ted Marx’s first ex-wife. Marx had married Miranda when they were both working on the television sitcom that made him famous. Miranda had played the part of the annoyingly nosey neighbor who had a crush on Marx’s character.
She had affection for Marx in real life too, and the teens had married. The marriage ended when Miranda caught him in bed with the woman who would later become wife number two. Marx had married six times over a period of nine years. Miranda was the only one who hadn’t signed a prenuptial agreement. As such, she had been receiving alimony from Ted Marx for nearly twenty years. It was something that irked the man to no end, while also costing him many thousands a month.
Miranda’s affection for her ex-husband had ended long ago. She only came to see him when she wanted something. Playing the neighbor girl on Marx’s hit TV show had been the highlight of Miranda’s acting career.
The show had ended nineteen years earlier. Since that time, Miranda had kept her name before the public by appearing on television shows that specialized in gathering familiar faces from old series together. When she wasn’t doing that, she acted in off-Broadway productions.
Marx came down to the lobby to meet with Miranda. As always, he was struck by how little she had changed over the years. They were the same age, thirty-eight, but Miranda could almost pass as his daughter. While Marx had been living the party life and flirting with alcoholism, Miranda had become a health nut who was a vegetarian and practiced yoga.
Marx still found her desirable, and Miranda knew it. Whenever she visited him, she dressed seductively.
Miranda Marx was a petite but shapely blonde with sapphire eyes and a dazzling smile. She was often cast as the seductress or mistress, and still played characters ten years younger than she was, under hot stage lights, which often revealed every line and wrinkle.
“What do you want this time, Miranda?” Marx asked, as he stared at her breasts.
“Hello to you too, Teddy. I swear you look older every time I see you.”
Marx smiled. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, tell me why you’re here?”
“I saw you on TV yesterday, on the news. They said that you’re involved with a serial killer.”
“I’m not involved with the whack job; he just chose me to make sure he gets credit for the murders he’s committing. The cops didn’t even know the deaths were connected.”
Miranda’s hand went to her throat as she made a face. Her nails were manicured; each finger had a drawing of a different flower on it. Marx wondered how much of his money she had wasted on that.
“I saw the video you filmed of that poor man dying inside a police station. Teddy, that was gruesome.”
“It also got me more views than I’ve ever had for any other video. If this whack job keeps tipping me off to who his victims are, I’ll make a mint.”
“You might even become famous again.”
“I’ve never been unfamous, Miranda, which is something you can’t claim.”
“I’ll admit it, my career could use a boost, and that’s why I’m here. I want you to take me along the next time you get contacted by the killer.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
Miranda leaned in closer to Marx, and his eyes drifted to the gap in her blouse.
“If you were to help me boost my name recognition, I’d have a chance at getting offered better parts on Broadway, maybe even leading roles.”
“You still haven’t given me a reason why I should help you.”
Miranda reached up and caressed Marx’s cheek. “I’d be very grateful.”
“Is that right? Okay, pay up front. We’ll go to a hotel and relive old times.”
“If I did that, gave you what you wanted, you’d never take me along with you. And why would we go to a hotel when your apartment is right upstairs?”
“I’m careful about who I have over, and I say no to your deal. You’re still hot as hell, Miranda, I can’t deny it, but I fell into that honey trap once. I won’t do it again.”
“You could still take me along with you or interview me.”
“I send you a check every month, that’s already more than I want to do for you.”
Miranda backed away from Marx. “Okay, be that way.”
“Don’t pout; I hear it causes wrinkles.”
Miranda said, “Goodbye, Teddy.” She spun around and headed for the door. Marx watched her, while staring at her ass, as old memories flitted through his mind.
Miranda left the building and walked over to a red sports car that was parked down the street. The man behind the wheel was named Drew Corbin.
Drew was twenty-three and a former minor league baseball player who’d been a left-handed pitcher. His inability to throw a decent fastball had been his downfall. Drew currently made his living by latching on to older women who were attracted to his good looks and muscular physique. He hadn’t rented an apartment in over two years, as he always lived with the woman he was currently bedding. Miranda was no exception. Drew Corbin had moved in with her three weeks earlier.
“How did it go?”
Miranda smiled. “Just as I expected; Teddy turned me down cold.”
“You said he’d be predictable.”
“I’ve been playing him one way or another for twenty years; today was no different.”
“So, what’s next? Do we—” Drew’s question was cut short as he was startled by someone pounding on his driver’s side window.
It was a tall, skinny woman in her forties with dark hair. She was so thin that the dress she wore looked as if it were still on a hanger. She had a pointy chin, and her eyes were ablaze with anger. She was jabbing a bony finger at Miranda in a threatening manner.
“I know where you live,” the woman told her.
“Oh no,” Miranda said. “Her again? Really?”
“I’ll get rid of her,” Drew said. He stepped from the car and into the street, grabbed the woman by a twig-like arm, and guided her over to the sidewalk. Her name was Heidi Dyer. Un
til Miranda came along, Drew was sleeping with her inside her Park Avenue apartment. Heidi had been generous with more than her body. The sports car Drew owned had been a Christmas gift from Heidi. He’d had a good thing going with the woman, it was too bad he had always found her unattractive.
When Miranda came along, Drew took a cut in pay, so to speak, by leaving Heidi to be with her. Even for a gigolo like Drew Corbin, money wasn’t everything. The sex with Miranda was ten times better, and he didn’t have to swallow a pill beforehand.
“Heidi, you can’t keep doing this,” Drew told her. “I’ve moved on, you should too.”
“I want you, Drew, and I always get what I want, or else.”
Drew laughed. “What are you gonna do, beat me up if I don’t come back to you?”
“I could hire people. I’ve done it before.”
“If you have me beaten, I’ll sue you. Miranda is a witness to your stalking. If I ask her to, she’ll say that she overheard you threaten me.”
Heidi looked Drew over. “I could never bring harm to that magnificent face of yours; I was talking about Miranda. Imagine her being beaten to a pulp; perhaps I’ll tell them to use a baseball bat, then maybe you’ll get the blame.”
Drew put his hands up as he backed away. The look on the former athlete’s face was one of revulsion.
“You’re nuts, lady. Go get some help. And stay away from me or I’ll talk to the cops about you. You’re not so rich that you can’t get thrown in jail, Heidi.”
Drew got back in the car. As he merged into traffic, Miranda turned to look at Heidi. The thin woman was pointing at Miranda again, and her eyes held only hate.
Chapter Seven
NEAR HOWESBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 10th
The FBI agents in the Howesburg area investigated the murder of Luis Cantrell. An agent named Draper spoke to Erica and Owens inside his small office in a nearby town. Draper was about forty, tall, and looked pleased to have a murder to deal with. His days were usually spent gathering information that would bolster court cases.
“The lab thinks the poison was in the mayonnaise that Cantrell ate with his French fries. They say they won’t know what it is until the lab reports come back.”
“How did the poison get in the mayo?” Owens asked.
“I have a theory on that. The guy who delivered the food is named Bruce Mueller. He remembered that he sat the box of food on the roof of his car while he chased after two twenty-dollar bills. The money was on the ground, like someone had lost it. I think that was done on purpose to distract Mueller.”
“If your theory is correct, those bills could have prints on them,” Erica said.
“I sent them off to the lab. We should hear something today.”
“Are there any cameras near the diner?”
Draper smiled. “Howesburg is so small it’s lucky to have a traffic signal. I did check the ATM camera on the bank’s machine, but it’s too far from the diner to have been any help.”
“What else can you tell us?” Owens said.
“A long red hair was found at the bottom of the cardboard box the diner placed the food in. No one at the diner or the police station has red hair. The boxes they use sit in a stack near the grill, sometimes for days. That hair could have come from a customer or it could have been there when the box was delivered. I told the lab to run DNA on it, because who knows, it might be that the killer has red hair.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if the DNA comes back as a match to a known killer,” Erica said, although she doubted finding the murderer would be that easy.
Draper wished them luck with their investigation. After a quick visit with the Howesburg Police to get their take on things, Erica and Owens climbed back in their car and headed for Manhattan. It was time to interview Ted Marx.
Unlike many childhood stars who had their earnings mishandled or frittered away by relatives, Ted Marx’s salary from his days as a teen idol had been wisely invested by his father. Some of his funds went missing in a scandal that involved his accountant at the time, but it was a small percentage of his earnings.
During his wild period of non-stop partying and travel, Marx had burned through most of it. Since then, he’d been scrambling to keep up the lifestyle he was accustomed to and to pay alimony to his first wife, Miranda Marx.
His midtown apartment had nearly tripled in value since he’d bought it years earlier, and Marx had been using the equity like an ATM machine. It was what allowed him to keep going. Not a complete fool, Marx realized he couldn’t continue the way he was, and understood that he needed to raise or earn a substantial sum to dig his way out of the hole he was in. It would take luck, or perhaps cunning.
Fortunately, if there was one thing Ted Marx had plenty of, it was luck. He remarked about it as he spoke to Erica and Owens inside his apartment.
“Cantrell asked me if I wanted to try his fries, because of the mayonnaise he had on them. If I had taken him up on the offer, I’d be dead right alongside him.”
“Why do you assume the poison was in the mayonnaise?” Owens asked.
“It had to be. Cantrell and I ate the same thing, a burger and fries, only I had ketchup on my fries like a normal person and he put mayonnaise on his.”
“Eating mayonnaise on French fries isn’t that uncommon,” Owens pointed out.
“I never saw anyone do it before.”
“Why do you think the killer contacted you, Mr. Marx?” Erica asked.
Marx gave her his best smile. “Call me Ted, honey, and what’s your name?”
“My name is Special Agent Novac, and I’d like you to answer my question.”
Marx looked taken aback by Erica’s brusqueness; he was used to women fawning over him.
It was unusual for Erica to dislike someone right away, but that had been her reaction upon meeting Marx. Erica had never watched much nighttime television as a child. Later on, when Marx’s show had been in reruns on TV, she’d been busy with schoolwork or helping out at her mother’s restaurant. She had heard of Marx primarily through the drug scandals and divorces reported in the news over the years.
She and Owens had reprimanded Marx for not getting in contact with the authorities right away. Marx’s filming and profiting off Luis Cantrell’s death rubbed Erica the wrong way, and the man had been leering at her since she stepped through the door.
“Whoa, honey, there’s no need to be so rude; I just asked your name.”
“We’re here to ask questions, Mr. Marx, not answer them,” Owens said. Bradley Owens had been staring out of the huge picture window in the apartment that offered a great view of Eighth Avenue. Being summer, the city was quieter than usual, yet still bustling.
Owens wasn’t a fan of Marx either. He had never liked the show Marx was famous for and felt as if the man wasn’t taking things seriously enough. Someone was murdering people, and all Marx cared about was pumping up the number of subscribers to his ViewTube channel. Owens also didn’t appreciate the fact that Marx smelled of liquor, although the hour was early.
Seeing that the agents weren’t swayed by his obvious and immense charm and star power, Marx decided to answer their questions so that he could get rid of them.
“I have no idea why the killer picked me to be the one to reveal what he’s up to. Maybe it’s because the police were incompetent and didn’t link the first two murders together.”
There was no way for the police to have done that, Erica and Owens knew. The murders took place in two different states and with dissimilar methods. Because of his head injury, Michael Heskett had been misidentified as an accident victim until his autopsy was performed, not a victim of homicide. Even if there was a link suspected, no black envelope and letter stating his day of death was discovered at the scene. They mentioned none of this to Marx. As Owens said, they were there to get answers, not give them.
“Have you been contacted by the killer again?” Erica asked.
“No new emails have come in, which sucks. The story will d
ie if there’s not something new soon.”
“You’re hoping that he targets someone else?”
“I didn’t say that, but this whack job says in the first email that he plans to kill again. If that’s true, the quicker he does it the better it will be for me.”
Erica smiled. “Maybe you’ll get a black card of your own in the mail. That would solve your problem.”
Marx sat back, shocked by the idea, then he laughed. “You’re trying to scare me, but I would never be targeted. The guy must like me, or he wouldn’t have picked me to be his spokesperson.”
“Spokesperson?” Erica said.
“You know what I mean. He picked me to tell people what he’s up to; I’m betting he’s a real fan of mine.”
“If so, that certainly narrows the field of suspects.”
“Ha, you wish. I’ve got millions of fans, most of them are good-looking women like yourself. Say, what are you doing later? Maybe we could get together.”
“I’m in New York to work, not play.”
“That’s a shame. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Marx’s phone rang and he answered it. After listening for a moment, he spoke to his caller in Japanese. As he ended the brief call, he offered an explanation.
“That was my housekeeper. She wanted to know if we were done yet, so she could clean the room.”
“What language were you speaking?” Erica asked.
“Japanese. I picked it up when I was living there.”
“Along with a housekeeper?”
“Yeah, honey, I got her there too.”
“My name isn’t honey.”
“Then tell me your first name?”
“You can call me Agent Novac.”
After a few more minutes of questioning, Erica and Owens felt that they had learned everything they could from Marx. As he held the door open for them to leave, Marx leaned in toward Erica as she was about to step in the hall.
“C’mon, why don’t we have dinner tonight? I can get a table at the best place in town.”
The Appointment Killer Page 4