Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  “The old lady is Gerri Lillianchild. She’s the one who called in the tip. His name is Myron Pecarsky. He’s a little hard of hearing, so you’ll have to speak up. They’re waiting for you in Room One.”

  “Let’s go, Lomax,” Terry said. “Bring your defibrillator.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  If they ever have a reality TV show featuring really, really ancient people, Gerri Lillianchild and Myron Pecarsky would make the perfect couple. They were chatty, lively, and sharp as a pair of ninety-year-old tacks.

  She was tiny, under five feet tall, and her weight was probably lower than her age. Her hair was bottle blonde and neatly permed, and her outfit was bright blue and—surprise, surprise—polyester.

  Myron Pecarsky, who we had heard was ninety-two, could have told us he was anywhere from eighty to a hundred and ten and we’d have believed him. He was tall, about six-three, but judging by the way his body accordion folded into itself, I suspect he had been NBA height as a younger man. He had twin hearing aids, a tripod metal walking stick, and he was sporting the latest in Jewish bling around his neck: a six-pointed gold Star of David the size of a hubcap. If he ever fell into the deep end of the pool at the nursing home, he’d sink without a ripple.

  When Terry and I entered the room, he stood up and banged his cane on the floor half a dozen times, as if he needed the hammering to get our attention. “Myron Pecarsky,” he bellowed. His voice was loud, raspy, and irritating. “Mrs. Lillianchild and I have been waiting. Where have you been?”

  “Fighting crime, directing traffic, rescuing kittens from trees; you name it, we’ve had a busy day,” Terry said. “What can we do for you folks?”

  “I know the mastermind behind the Hollywood Bloodsucker murders,” Pecarsky said.

  “The Hollywood Bloodsucker is something invented by the media,” Terry said.

  “What?” Pecarsky said, twisting a little dial on one of his hearing aids. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m getting bad reception in here.”

  “Are you talking about the murders of Barry Gerber and Damian Hedge?” Terry shouted.

  “Of course I’m talking about Gerber and Hedge. Who else did the Hollywood Bloodsucker kill?” He repositioned his cane so he could turn his body to me. “I’m hoping you’re the smart one, because your friend can’t follow what I’m saying.”

  “I’m pretty smart,” I said. I gestured toward the chair. “Have a seat, and tell us what you know.”

  “Thank you.” He sat. “Show him the script, Gerri.”

  Mrs. Lillianchild pulled a large envelope from her PBS tote bag and put it on the table.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Pecarsky said. “What we have here, Detective, is a screenplay written by one of my clients.”

  “Clients?” I said.

  “I’m a talent agent. Surely you’ve heard of Myron Pecarsky. I’ve handled the greats and the near-greats. Phillip Loeb, Luther Adler, Menasha Skulnik.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said, nice and loud, not knowing if anyone he mentioned had been a great or a near-great. “So you still have clients.”

  He shrugged. “Not so many. Most of them are dead. But sometimes I meet someone young and promising and I agree to take him on.”

  “You work out of…” I didn’t want to say nursing home. “You work out of your residence?”

  “What else would I do? Rent a suite on Wilshire Boulevard? All I need is a telephone and a secretary.”

  Mrs. Lillianchild pointed a bony finger at her chest, lest I not be a smart enough detective to figure out who Myron’s secretary was.

  Pecarsky went on. “And if I have to take a meeting or do a lunch, the ambulette drives me into the city and waits.”

  Terry’s face was in pain. He wanted to be anywhere but here. I, too, was starting to wonder if Wendy Burns was as smart a manager as I thought.

  “Tell us about the script you brought,” I said. “And how it relates to our case.”

  “It’s called Bloodthirsty,” Pecarsky said. Then he winked. “You can see the connection already.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Catchy title. Go on.”

  “When the movie opens, a man named Aaron gets out of jail. He’s been in for seven years because he drove drunk and killed someone. A few weeks after Aaron is out of jail one of his worst enemies is murdered. Are you following me? One of his worst enemies.”

  “Worst enemy,” I said. “Got it.”

  “I forget the name of the enemy,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It was David Rosenberg,” Gerri said.

  “No, no,” Pecarsky said, getting even louder and raspier. “You’re confused. David Rosenberg is the new fellow who just moved into the home. Room 107. He was in the drapery business. The murder victim in the script was a different name.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “Because with your memory—”

  “Folks!” It didn’t matter that he was deaf. I would have yelled anyway. “I don’t need the names of fictitious characters. Just get back to the story.”

  “Where was I?” Pecarsky said.

  Terry groaned, but Pecarsky either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.

  “Aaron gets out of jail. One of his worst enemies is murdered,” I said.

  “Right,” Pecarsky said. “The body is found stuffed in a garbage can. There’s no sign of a wound, but when they do the autopsy, they discover that he was exsanguinated.”

  The pained expression on Terry’s face turned into a holy-shit look.

  Pecarsky knew he had said the magic word. He continued. “Two days later a second body turns up. It’s another one of Aaron’s worst enemies. This guy is found in a portable toilet at a construction site. Again, no wounds. But when they do the autopsy, no blood. He, too, has been exsanguinated.”

  Terry reached for the script sitting on the table. Mrs. Lillianchild laid her hand on top of it. “He’s not finished,” she said.

  The two dinosaurs smiled at one another and suddenly I had a Joanie moment. This could have been us, growing old and dotty together, sharing rides in our ambulette, torturing homicide cops and thoroughly relishing every minute of it.

  “Go on, sir,” I said.

  “You realize, of course, that what I’ve told you so far about my script has already happened in real life,” he said.

  “It certainly sounds close,” I said. “When was your script written?”

  “You mean, did I write it last night so I could get the reward?”

  “I don’t think you’re that kind of an agent,” I said.

  “It was written at least several months ago,” he said. “I know I’ve had it since March, maybe February.”

  “What’s the rest of the screenplay?”

  “A third person is murdered. He, too, is one of Aaron’s old enemies. He, too, is exsanguinated.”

  “Where do they find the body?”

  “A junkyard.”

  “Do the cops find the killer?” Terry said.

  “Wouldn’t you think Aaron is the killer?” Pecarsky said.

  “No. Not in a movie. If three of Aaron’s worst enemies are murdered, someone is setting him up to take the fall. They want the cops to arrest Aaron.”

  “Bingo,” Pecarsky said, punctuating it with a cane thump. “So you’re not so dumb after all. But my writer came up with an even better twist than that. You can read it in the script.”

  “Can I look at it now?” Terry said.

  The old man tap-tap-tapped his cane. “Do we have a deal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The hundred-thousand-dollar reward. Once you see the writer’s name on the front page, you’ll know who the killer is. I can’t give you a free look. Once I blow the whistle on my client, even if they make the movie, I’ll never see a dime from him. You have to pay the hundred thousand.”

  Mrs. Lillianchild picked up the envelope and clutched it to her chest. “So, Detectives,” she said. “Deal? Or no deal?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
>
  I don’t get to use the word ‘dumbfounded’ every day. But I couldn’t think of any other word for what I felt. Two old coots, barely fogging the mirror, seemed to know the name of the serial killer we were looking for, and they were willing to sell it to us for a hundred grand.

  Ten minutes ago I was sure that a dead Chinese girl and her parents were the key to unraveling the mystery. Pecarsky hadn’t mentioned any young girls—Asian or otherwise—or vengeful moms and dads, or drug dealers serving up eightballs at McDonald’s and asking, “Do you want fries with that?”

  All he had were the sketchy details that had been in the morning paper. But he was convincing enough to make me want to see the rest of his movie. I just wasn’t going to pay the admission price. Time to negotiate.

  “Mr. Pecarsky, my family has been in show business for years,” I said. “Did you ever hear of Tess Delehanty?”

  “No. Who was she?”

  “My mother, she should rest in peace,” I said, trying to put a little of Eli Hand’s Jewish spin on the words. “She did hundreds of movies. With the greats and the near-greats.”

  “She was an actress?”

  “Action films,” I said. “Mostly Mama was a stuntwoman. But she had speaking parts.”

  He smiled and his head nodded when I said “Mama.”

  “And Papa still works for the studios. He drives around a lot of the bigwigs. His name is Jim Lomax.”

  Pecarsky may be old, but he’s far from dumb. “That’s the driver who was shot with a stun gun when they kidnapped Hedge,” he said. “His name was in all the papers. He should sue the studio.”

  “Good advice, Mr. Pecarsky,” I said. “I’ll suggest it to Papa. You know what? I’ll do even better. You’re such a help already, that when he’s out of the hospital, he’ll drive over to your…to your…”

  “It’s a nursing home. You can say it. At my age I’m happy to be living anyplace above-ground.”

  “You have a fantastic attitude,” I said. “Papa and you will get along fine. And boy, can he tell you stories about Hollywood. Especially the old days. That man can talk your ear off.”

  “Not a problem,” Pecarsky said pointing a finger at each ear. “I got an on/off switch. If he gets boring, I turn the dial.”

  “Anyway, you and Mrs. Lillianchild have been so helpful, I can make you a promise. My father will drive over to see you in a limo and take you for a spin. The mall, the movies, dinner, you name it.”

  “We want the one that Hedge was in when they kidnapped him.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator, but you got it,” I said. “That I can guarantee you in advance. But the hundred thousand, that’s not mine to give away. Your lead has to pan out.”

  “What am I, stupid?” he said. “I know that. But how do I know I’ll get the credit if it does pan out? This business is all about credits. You want chapter and verse about how many of my clients got screwed by the studios?”

  “I’m not a studio. I’m an honest cop. I come from good stock, and my girlfriend is a nice Jewish girl whose father is a rabbi.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Diana,” I said, leaving out the Trantanella. What am I, stupid? “Her father is Rabbi Silver. So, you give us the script, and if this helps us catch the killer, you’ll get the reward.”

  “And I get the limo ride no matter what?” he said.

  “You drive a hard bargain, but sure.” I held out my hand. “Deal?”

  He stared at it, still not sure, still deliberating.

  “Come on, Myron,” I said. “It’s just you and me. A couple of mensches. What do we need, a minyan?”

  That was the topper. Pecarsky broke into a big fat grin, clasped both his bony mitts around mine, and squeezed hard. “Deal.”

  Thank you, Dr. Hand.

  Little Gerri handed me the envelope. I opened the back flap and pulled out the script.

  Bloodthirsty. By Victor Shea.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  I tried to flip through the pages of Victor’s script, but it’s hard to read in a speeding police car, so I tossed it on the floor.

  “Don’t tell me who the killer is,” Terry said. “I don’t want you to spoil the movie for me.”

  “I had it solved two hours ago,” I said. “But now my primary suspect is recovering from hip surgery in Texas, and as for Victor, I’m totally baffled on motive. He doesn’t even know any of the victims. What’s the connection?”

  “Frustrated writer,” Terry said. “He figures if he writes a script, then acts it out for real, all the studios will fight to get their hands on it.”

  “That’s insane. He’s not the type to kill a bunch of people just to sell a screenplay.”

  “You’d be amazed how far people in this town will go to sell a movie,” Terry said. “Plus he’s familiar with medical procedures.”

  “We saw the kidnapping video. Victor wasn’t in it.”

  “Writers work behind the camera. Maybe he hired people,” Terry said. “And if you’re applying logic here, try this on for size: Victor knows every detail of these two crimes. As a morgue rat he’s got lots more info than the general public.”

  “So?”

  “So if he’s innocent, how come he didn’t say anything? Like, by the way, Detectives, these two autopsies we did here are exactly the way I described them in scenes twenty-two and thirty-seven of my new screenplay. In fact, my crimes of fiction and the recent spurt of dead celebrities are so eerily similar, that I feel it is my civic duty to step forward and report this coincidence to the authorities. But trust me, I haven’t done anything illegal. It’s just a serendipitous case of life imitating art.”

  “If he’s guilty, why would he give the script to his agent before the murders are committed?” I said.

  “He probably figured the old goat would never read it. Victor is always bitching that his agent can’t get him a job, but at the rate Myron is going, he’s gonna land Victor a lifetime contract making license plates for the state.”

  “And he wants a hundred Gs commission for doing it,” I said. “I had to use every ounce of Jewish charm I have in my Irish body to get him to give me the script on spec.”

  “Now if you could only solve these nasty murders before your bar mitzvah, I’m sure your Mama, she should rest in peace, would be so proud.”

  “That had to be one of the weirdest interviews we’ve ever handled,” I said. “I felt like somebody dropped us right in the middle of an episode of Geezers Gone Wild.”

  “Do you think Pecarsky and the old lady are getting it on?” Terry said.

  “At their age?” I said. “Not every night.”

  “You’re right. The nursing home probably posts a schedule. Tuesdays, Bingo; Wednesdays, square dancing; Thursdays, get your freak on in the back of the ambulette on your way to the police station.”

  “You’re just upset because some old codger is getting more sex than you.”

  “Mike, these days, all the old codgers are getting more sex than me.”

  My cell phone interrupted. It was Wendy Burns.

  “Roger Dingle is in LA,” she said.

  “Dingle is in town,” I said to Terry and put the phone on speaker.

  “The trooper who went to Dingle’s house got snookered,” she said. “He rang the bell, got no answer, so he called the home phone. Dingle picked up, said he was bedridden and couldn’t get to the door. The cop never actually saw him, but he wrote up a report that Dingle was there.”

  “The Texas State Police never heard of Call Forwarding?” I said.

  “Sending a trooper out to see if someone is home isn’t complicated police work. So they sent a greenhorn kid and he screwed up. Lucky for us, some sergeant checked his report and dispatched a second unit, who interviewed the neighbors. The Dingles packed up their pickup truck and their camper and left town two weeks ago.”

  “Their pickup truck and their camper?” I said. “So that means they’re not getting blood all over the good sheets at the Beverl
y Wilshire Hotel. They’re sucking their victims dry in the comfort and privacy of their Winnebago.”

  “Actually, it’s a Sunline. We’ve got the make, model, and tags on both the truck and the trailer. I’ve got every cruiser in the county looking for them.”

  “You’re positive they’re here?”

  “I checked with Verizon Wireless. On April 26, the Dingles forwarded their home phone to Roger’s cell. They left a trail of digital breadcrumbs from cell site to cell site across the Southwest. They arrived in LA ten days ago.”

  I’ve picked up a little about cell phone technology working with Muller. I know just enough to make me dangerous. “If they’ve established a home base in LA,” I said, “we should be able to tell which cell site is getting the heaviest usage. That would narrow it down to a five-to-ten mile radius. Then we could triangulate. It’s a needle in a haystack, but we can do it.”

  “Dingle is smarter than that,” Wendy said. “Once he got to LA he bought himself a few more mobile phones. One day he’ll forward his home number to a Sprint phone. Then to a Cingular. We can’t triangulate, because basically, he keeps changing haystacks.”

  “What is he,” I said, “some kind of an engineer?”

  “No, just a smart cop. He was with the Houston PD for twenty years.”

  “Dingle is a retired cop?” Terry said.

  “Decorated,” Wendy said.

  “That sucks,” I said. “But as much as I hate cop on cop, it’s good to have him back on the suspect list. Terry and I have been trying to make sense out of this new development with Victor Shea. He’s got no motive.”

  “Maybe Joy Lee was his girlfriend,” Wendy said.

  “I’ve got pretty good gaydar. Victor ain’t the girlfriend type,” I said as Terry parked the car. “We’re at the morgue. We’re gonna bring him in and ask him a few hundred burning questions.”

  We walked through the back door, sidestepping a woman on a gurney who was waiting for the welcoming committee.

  There were three people sitting at their desks behind the admissions counter. Anne Jordan was the senior tech. “Anne, where’s Victor Shea?” I said.