Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

Margaux Hemingway: Myshkin, was your wife supportive of your epilepsy?

  Myshkin: After we got married I told her about it.

  Margaux Hemingway: And?

  Myshkin: Yes, she was supportive. But not for long.

  Margaux Hemingway: Because?

  Myshkin: She died.

  Margaux Hemingway: I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

  Teddy Roosevelt: There are plenty of fish in the sea.

  Caligula: I just got here. Why are we talking about fish? Did I miss something?

  Myshkin: No. I think I spend too much time here.

  Caligula: We epileptics need to stick together.

  Margaux Hemingway: Are you religious, Myshkin?

  Myshkin: No.

  Margaux Hemingway: Maybe you could find solace in religion.

  Myshkin: Organized religion is the main cause of war.

  Margaux Hemingway: That’s not true. Religions bring peace.

  Myshkin: Haven’t you heard of the term holy war? What about the Crusades? What about ISIS? I could go on.

  Caligula: Speaking of fish, the fish is a symbol of Christianity.

  Margaux Hemingway: I gotta run. My dog needs to pee.

  Caligula: Was it something I said?

  Myshkin: I gotta get back to work. Till next time.

  Brody logged out.

  Chapter 57

  Deirdre was sitting on the sofa in her living room reading a paperback crime thriller when she heard the doorbell ring.

  “I got it,” said Valerie, rushing down the stairs to the door.

  Deirdre resumed reading her book.

  Valerie screamed.

  Deirdre bolted to her feet, her heartbeat jackhammering and exploding in her ears, her eyes huge, her book sailing off her lap and thudding onto the carpet.

  “What is it?” she said, cold terror creeping through her veins.

  Valerie belted down the hall and up the stairs, her face ashen, not heeding Deirdre.

  Consternated, Deirdre crept to the hall and peered toward the front door to see what had prompted Valerie’s scream. The door hung ajar, a package the size of a hatbox open in front of it on the floor.

  Remembering finding Busby’s head she was circumspect about approaching the box, but she had to know what was in it. As she neared it, she gazed inside, biting her lower lip. It couldn’t be any worse than Busby’s head. Yet Valerie had hightailed it to her bedroom.

  Deirdre could see the package contained a cooler, whose rim was sticking out of the box. Could someone have sent Busby’s head back to them? How did they get it? She couldn’t recall where Lyndon had put it. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember his ever telling her where he had put it.

  It wasn’t Busby’s head, she could see now.

  It was another head.

  A human head.

  Deirdre clutched her heart, fearing lest it stop.

  She decided to tough it out and find out who had been beheaded. She smelled formaldehyde.

  What kind of wacko would send her a pickled human head? she wondered in dismay.

  The face had scarlet lipstick, mascara, and silver eyeshade on its closed eyes, like a gaudily made-up hooker. It also wore foundation and rouge. It was a man’s head made up to look like a hooker’s. It was obscene. Like the volleyball the drone had dropped into her pool.

  He looked like—

  She screamed, feeling her legs wobble.

  Gathering her wits she closed the front door so the neighbors couldn’t see her plight. She had to figure out what to do.

  She recognized the man’s face, even with the gobs of makeup distorting it.

  It was Sam Rakowski.

  Someone had beheaded Rakowski’s corpse and sent her the head.

  Feeling lightheaded she stumbled through the hall to the living room seeking the sofa, where she collapsed. She didn’t know what to do. Had Lyndon sent her the package? If he was the one that had Rakowski killed, he could be the one that had sent her the head.

  Deirdre jumped in her seat as the phone rang.

  She speared the handset on the phone on the coffee table and lifted it to her ear.

  “Where is it?” said the electronically distorted voice.

  “Where’s what? Who is this?” said Deirdre, at her wits’ end.

  The caller hung up.

  Dumbfounded, Deirdre slammed the handset into its cradle.

  She decided to call Brody.

  Chapter 58

  Brody answered his phone.

  “Get here now,” said Deirdre, her voice fraught. “We need to talk.”

  She hung up.

  Brody sprang into action. Something was up.

  He drove his Mini to Deirdre’s as fast as he could without running any lights. He parked his Mini in her driveway, bolted out of his car, charged up to her front door, and crashed the bottom of his fist against her doorbell.

  Distraught, she opened the door and let him in.

  “What happened?” he said, as she shut the door behind him.

  “We just got that box,” she said, pointing at the open package on the lobby floor not six feet from the front door.

  Brody’s gaze fell on the ghoulish sight of the clownlike human head in the boxed cooler.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “It was delivered to our door twenty minutes ago.”

  “Did you see who delivered it?”

  “Valerie opened the door. She said it was the mailman.”

  “It must be the same slimeball that sent Busby’s head to you. Same MO.”

  “Why are they doing this?” said Deirdre, wringing her hands.

  “They want something from you.”

  “But what? I can’t read minds. Why don’t they tell me?”

  “They want to rattle you. They’re messing with your head so bad, you’ll tell them whatever they want to know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Brody stared at the contents of the box. “I bet that’s the same guy they castrated. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “They smeared a lot of makeup on his face, but I can tell who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s Sam Rakowski.”

  “Rakowski? The guy you hired to track Lyndon? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “The killer must have shipped the body and/or its parts from Cabo.”

  Deirdre nodded. “That’s where they murdered him.”

  “Somebody’s going to a lot of trouble to terrorize you.”

  “What can I do?”

  “We gotta find out who’s doing this.”

  “How?”

  Brody squatted over the package and read the return address. He recognized it as the same PO box number that Busby’s head had been sent from.

  “Did you tell your husband about this?” he said, standing up.

  “Not yet. What if—what—what if he’s behind it?” she said, her voice faltering at the thought.

  “He would have reason to send this if he found out it was you that had hired Rakowski to tail him.” Brody paused. “But we don’t know for sure that Lyndon had Rakowski killed.”

  “I don’t know whether to tell him about the package.”

  Brody picked up on a bluebottle buzzing near Rakowski’s head, corkscrewing around it. The fly must have entered the house when Deirdre had opened the front door, he decided.

  “Don’t tell him yet,” he said.

  “When should I tell him?”

  “Did you tell the cops?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.”

  “But I need to tell them. Rakowski was murdered.”

  “It’s already been reported. The Cabo cops have a record of the homicide.”

  “So I don’t have to report it again?”

  “Not the homicide. You could report being terrorized.” Brody thought about Peltz and the NDA he had signed for the FBI. Peltz had told him not to involve the cops in the Lyndon Fox affair. “Don’
t do it yet, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your husband would become furious if he found out you contacted the cops. You know him. He doesn’t want his reputation tarnished with bad PR.”

  “Isn’t my life in danger?” she said, her eyes beseeching him.

  Brody remembered what Peltz had told him about fed agents surveilling the Fox house. “You’re being protected. Men are guarding your house in secret.”

  “Why didn’t they stop this package from being delivered?” she said, wrought up.

  “They had no idea what was in it.”

  She shook her head and walked away from him. A half minute later she slewed around to confront him.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she said. “Wait here for them to kill me?”

  The fly gyrating around the revolting severed head was getting on Brody’s nerves. He stooped, collected the cooler’s lid, and closed the cooler. The fly buzzed off.

  “We don’t need to look at that anymore,” he said, straightening up.

  “What do I do with it? Lyndon’s gonna see it when he comes home.”

  “If he’s the one that sent it, he already knows it’s here.” Brody mulled it over. “On second thought, let him find it. I want to see how he reacts. We might be able to tell if he’s involved from his reaction. When’s he due home?”

  Deirdre eyed her wristwatch. “Any time now.”

  Even now, Brody could hear the harmonious rumble of Lyndon’s Porsche pulling into the driveway.

  Chapter 59

  When Lyndon opened the front door, he was annoyed. The sight of Brody’s face increased his annoyance.

  “What’s that insurance agent doing here again?” he said. “I saw his car in the drive.”

  “I asked him to come,” said Deirdre. “I’m still interested in buying insurance.”

  “I wouldn’t buy anything from that guy. He could have a heart attack in our house and sue us.”

  Deirdre pointed at the package on the floor. “That package came in the mail.”

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  “You better take a look,” said Brody.

  Lyndon glared at him, not appreciating the advice.

  Lyndon got down on his haunches beside the box, opened it, and removed the cooler’s lid.

  He froze in shock at the sight of the head.

  “What the fuck?” he said, pulling away from it.

  Lyndon’s reaction appeared genuine, decided Brody. But then again, Lyndon was an accomplished actor, as he had proven when Brody had caught him playing S-M games with Deirdre. In fact, Lyndon and Deirdre were both expert actors. And game players.

  “What should we do?” said Deirdre.

  “Did you call the cops?” said Lyndon.

  “Not yet.”

  “We don’t want them involved. I’d be committing career suicide if we told them. This is not the type of PR we want.” Lyndon turned to Brody. “And you better not tell them either.”

  “It’s none of my business,” said Brody. “Do you recognize him?”

  Lyndon eyed the head with disfavor. “No. He looks like a hooker. Why would someone send this to us?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Deirdre. “Better yet, I wish they’d leave us alone.”

  Brody couldn’t tell if Lyndon was telling the truth. Maybe the guy honestly didn’t recognize Rakowski because of all of the makeup on Rakowski’s face. And yet Deirdre had recognized him. If Lyndon didn’t know Rakowski, the makeup wouldn’t make a difference one way or another.

  “Do you recognize him?” Lyndon asked Deirdre.

  “No,” she answered.

  Brody figured it was a good idea for her to lie about it—her only option, for that matter. After all, she had hired Rakowski to spy on Lyndon.

  “Do you have any idea who sent this?” said Lyndon.

  “The same guy who sent Busby’s head to us,” said Deirdre.

  “Where does that leave us? What’s the point?”

  “Somebody wants something from you,” chimed in Brody.

  “I didn’t ask your opinion,” said Lyndon.

  “Can you think of something somebody would want from you?”

  “No. Nothing,” said Lyndon, shrugging it off.

  “Then why are they terrorizing you?”

  “I have no idea, and I’m getting sick of coming home to packages with heads in them.”

  Screwing up his face Lyndon replaced the lid on the cooler and picked up the package. “We need to get rid of this.”

  “I don’t think we should throw it out,” said Deirdre. “It’s evidence that somebody’s dead. The cops could charge us with destroying evidence if we threw it out.”

  “Tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice,” said Brody.

  “You hawk insurance for a living,” said Lyndon. “Where do you get off telling us about the law?”

  “I think we should listen to him,” said Deirdre.

  “What do you want me to do?” said Lyndon. “Frame the head and hang it in the living room?”

  “It could be evidence of a murder,” said Brody.

  “We don’t know this guy was murdered,” said Lyndon. “He could’ve died naturally, and somebody cut the head off the corpse. In which case, it’s not evidence of a crime.”

  “Is it legal to send human heads in the mail?” said Deirdre, aghast at the idea.

  “Hospitals do it all the time.”

  “They do?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? I’m getting rid of it.”

  The cooler in his hand, Lyndon stalked through the living room and out the French window toward the backyard.

  Brody watched him leave then turned to Deirdre. “I better go. Lyndon might get suspicious if I hang around here too much.”

  Concerned, Deirdre folded her arms in front of her chest. “I’m getting the feeling things are gonna get worse.”

  “I believe you’re right,” said Brody.

  Chapter 60

  Brody drove to meet Rakowski’s PI partner Eileen Quester to see if she could fill in the blanks about Rakowski.

  Dressed in a shepherd’s check blazer, a yellow button-down blouse, and a grey skirt, Quester was sitting behind her desk in her office, her back straight, a yellow Ticonderoga pencil clamped between her teeth as she saw Brody enter.

  “Could I ask you some questions about your ex-partner Sam Rakowski?” he said.

  “All I know is, he was shot in Los Cabos,” she said, removing the pencil from her mouth. “I think better when I chew on a pencil,” she said, contemplating the pencil pocked with her teeth marks.

  “Do you know how he was progressing on his investigation there?”

  “No. We didn’t share. We just worked in the same office.”

  “Could you find out?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what the Cabo cops did with Rakowski’s corpse? Did they ship it here to the States? Maybe they shipped it here to your office.”

  “I wouldn’t accept a corpse shipped here.”

  “You refused to accept it?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I wouldn’t accept it if they shipped it here, is all I said.”

  “Then what happened to it?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Did he have any next of kin that would want it?”

  “I don’t know much about his personal life. He had an ex-wife somewhere. I can’t imagine why she would want it. They had an ugly custody dispute over their daughter. Which he lost. He never tired of griping to me about it.”

  “What would happen to his body if nobody claimed it?”

  “You’re asking me?” she said, her face incredulous. “I don’t know anything about Mexican law.”

  “I was thinking out loud.”

  “In LA they hold onto an unclaimed corpse for three days. If nobody claims it, they cremate it—unless you’re a vet. If you’re a vet, they’ll bury you in a VA cemetery.”

  “His body wasn’t cremate
d.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” said Quester, opening the top two buttons of her blouse.

  “Because I saw parts of it intact.”

  She pulled a face. “If you already know where the body is, why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I know where some of the body parts are now. I’m trying to find out how they got to the States.”

  “I never heard of cops mailing body parts anywhere—whether they’re Mexican or American, for that matter.”

  “I doubt it was the cops that sent them. Didn’t the Cabo cops tell you where they were holding Rakowski’s stiff?”

  “Down at their station. But there’s no way I’m going down there to claim it. I’m not his next of kin.”

  “I guess somebody could’ve jacked the stiff from the cops.”

  “Who would want to steal a dead body?”

  “Beats me. If not you, I can’t think of anyone who would want it. Are either of his parents still alive?”

  “Not that I know of. Why do you think I would want it?”

  “To give him a decent burial. You were partners.”

  “We barely spoke to each other.”

  “I get the impression you didn’t like him.”

  “He went off half-cocked all the time. He didn’t think before he acted. I’m not surprised he ended up getting shot.”

  “Somebody claimed his body, and I’m trying to find out who it was.”

  “You came to the wrong place.”

  “Why would someone want to blow him away?”

  “The Cabo cops said a mugger shot him. Case closed.”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  Quester shrugged. “He had a lot of enemies.”

  “Does anyone stand out to you?”

  She shook her head no. “He was disliked by everyone.”

  “Even you.”

  “Especially me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He never paid his half of the office rent. I always had to cover for him. I resented that.”

  Enough to have him killed? Brody wondered. But why would she send the head to Deirdre Fox?

  “What did you say your job is?” she said.

  “I’m a private detective, like you,” he said, reached for his wallet, withdrew a business card from it, and handed the card to her.

  “Ah. That explains why you’re so nosy,” she said, not bothering to take the card.