Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Mary Rocket nodded. “Like I said, one smart motherfucker.”

  I looked at the other cops squeezed into the room. I knew most of them. Detectives now, they’d worn uniforms when I’d been a cop, six years ago. Now they were members of the LAPD’s most important task force. There was a buzz in the room, a palpable vibe. This was a life or death hunt for a serial killer. The men and women gathered in this conference room were filled with a sense of purpose, of duty.

  I’d loved that feeling when I was a cop. And sitting there, I realized how much I missed it.

  Captain Mary Rocket turned to Stacy. “Tell them about your interview with Merlin.” Eddie Glover, that afternoon’s Merlin, had been found bound and gagged in a gardening shed near the employee walkway behind the Ugly Ducking ride.

  “Well,” Stacy said. “He said President Obama did it.” This earned her a mixture of groans and laughs. “He’d just finished his shift and was heading in to take a break when someone grabbed him from behind, pulled him into the bushes, ripped off his Merlin head, and shoved a wet, smelly rag over his face.”

  “Chloroform,” Hector Ruiz said. He was the criminologist assigned to the task force. Only five six, with thick glasses and a bushy moustache, Hector looked like a bookworm. But looks are often deceiving. Hector was an adrenaline freak. Anything for a thrill. Bungee jumping. Sky diving. He’d even done Niagara falls in a barrel. The guy was fearless.

  “We found the rag buried in the bushes.”

  “That’s when he got a look at his attacker. Just a glimpse. But he swears it was President Obama.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Maybe we should check the President’s alibi.”

  “I already did,” Mary Rocket said. “He was in Bangor, Maine, speaking at a Save the Whales rally. So I figure the Gravesnatcher was wearing a mask. You know, one of those Halloween things. Stacy, did he get any feel for the man’s height? Weight? Did he speak? Any other indicators?”

  “No. He said it all happened too fast. The last thing Merlin remembered was wishing he’d voted for Romney.”

  Mary Rocket let the laughter ripple through the room. She was a big believer in morale, and now was a good time for the cops to bond. She knew they were going to need the unity.

  “Okay, kids,” she finally said as the room settled down. “On to the grunt work. Landsbury, Ruiz, McDonald: you’ve got the mask. Find out who makes Obama masks. Who sells them locally. Who’s bought them in the last sixty days.

  “Semel, Whitmore, Miller, Fleck: check the explosives angle. He made or paid someone to make that collar. Track the C-4. The FBI may be able to help. And rattle the cages of all the paroled boom boom felons. These guys talk to each other. Someone may have heard something.

  “Chang, Inch, Lang: you’ve got videos. Neither the cemetery or Hunter mansion had surveillance cameras, but Winslow’s building and Magic Land did. Unfortunately, Magic Land’s got 267 of them. Pull all the tapes, narrow your time line to two hours either side of the crimes and start looking.”

  Chang raised his hand. “Looking for what?”

  “Matches. Take a look at all the men who entered Winslow’s building up to two hours before his murder and see if you can find a face that matches on the Magic Land tapes.”

  A sense of gloom descended on Chang. “There must’ve been 20,000 people at Magic Land that day.”

  “Twenty-eight thousand, four hundred sixty-seven. I already checked.”

  The gloom turned to despair as Mary Rocket moved on.

  “Since this feels like a revenge thing, Walburg, Laidman, Correll: you’re going to connect the dots. Start interviewing people. Check files and records. I want a list of everybody who ever had associations with Winslow and Hunter. Then crosscheck the lists. There have to be some names on both lists, and one of them could be our killer.”

  “What about me?” I asked. “I seem to be connected to the Gravesnatcher, too.”

  “You do, indeed. Hell, boy, he seems to have a downright crush on you. Including your business card on all his ransom notes. Calling you. You may be the key to the whole damn case. I’m going to put a Tap and Trace on your office and apartment phones, while you do two things. First, put together your own list. Write down every name you can think of—everyone in Hollywood you’ve ever socialized with or worked with. We’ll compare it to Winslow and Hunter’s.”

  “And second?”

  “Don’t get killed. Remember, this guy’s smart.”

  “Too smart,” a voice said from the back of the room. A whiny voice I recognized. Piccolo. He looked a little worse for wear.

  He was pale and his left arm was in a sling, but his mouth was in overdrive. Until he was fit enough to return to active duty, he’d been reassigned to a desk.

  Almost,” Piccolo went on, “like he’s being advised by someone who knows police procedure.”

  I knew what this son of a bitch was implying, but Mary Rocket didn’t. “You think he’s working with a cop?”

  “No Ma’am. Someone who used to be a cop. Maybe someone who was kicked off the force and has a grudge to settle.”

  He was looking right at me. His words were pointed enough to draw blood.

  “Maybe someone who put himself into the middle of the case so he’ll know what the authorities are doing every minute of every day.”

  Mary Rocket was flabbergasted. “You actually think Gideon’s in on it? You got any proof?”

  “Just my gut, and it’s never wrong.” That got a few titters from the back of the room. Piccolo spun to the dissenters. “Well, it’s not!” He turned back to the Mary Rocket. “Incarcerate him, Captain. We’ve already got Kincaid for breaking and entering Winslow’s condo. I guarantee it’s just a matter of time before we deduce he’s the mastermind behind the Gravesnatcher.”

  “I hear things, Detective,” Mary Rocket said, “lots of things. Sometimes I think I hear too many things and I wish I could have a specially designed high-tech filter that only let the important, police-related facts in and kept the more mundane gossip and innuendo out. But science hasn’t caught up to my needs, yet. So I’m stuck hearing all this shit. And some of the shit is about you and a certain female police officer. One who used to be married to somebody in this very room. Somebody who may be stirring up emotions in you that are clouding your usually impartial judgment. So I’m going to take what you and others have said under advisement, and I recommend you do the same.”

  Chastised but unbowed, Piccolo mumbled, “Yes, Ma’am,” and sneered at me.

  My cell phone vibrated. I glanced at it. I had a text message from Hillary. Three numbers that sent a chill down my spine. It was the code Hillary and I had worked out, the code to use if another Gravesnatcher call came in. 666.

  “Imperial Investigations.” Hillary sounded just as cute on the phone.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “666.”

  “I know. I know. I know. I got your message. Now give me the details.” I was on my cell phone, and since no one in the conference room could hear Hillary’s side of the conversation, sixty pairs of curious eyes stared at me.

  “There’s another ransom note with your card attached.”

  “Who got the note?”

  “Lisa Montgomery.” Instinctively, I looked at Stacy. She caught the look and returned it curiously. She had no way of knowing Hillary had just mentioned the movie star, Lisa Montgomery. My former client, Lisa Montgomery.

  The woman who had broken up our marriage, Lisa Montgomery.

  Things were about to get really ugly.

  “I hope the Gravesnatcher kills the bitch!”

  “And you said I had unresolved issues about our relationship.”

  “Oh, no. I have totally clarity about our relationship. It sucked. You sucked. Every hour, minute and second of our relationship sucked.”

  Stacy and I were arguing in Mary Rocket’s office. The Captain watched from her desk chair, a bemused smile on her lips. “I seem to recall a period of time when you two were googly
eyed love birds. Staring at each other across the bullpen. All those endless liplocks in the parking lot. Hell, I even walked in on you two doing the wild thing in a storage closet.”

  “He may have been fucking me,” Stacy said, “but he was probably thinking about Lisa Montgomery.”

  “I didn’t even know Lisa Montgomery then.”

  “Then you were thinking about some other half-wit actress.”

  “Lisa Montgomery happens to be quite smart.”

  “Now I’m stupid.”

  “No, I just said Lisa’s smart.”

  “Fine. She’s got better cheekbones, bigger tits, a nicer ass, and she’s smarter than me.”

  “I never said that. I’ve always admired your brain.”

  “So I’m ugly.”

  “I didn’t say that, either.” I turned to Mary Rocket. “Help.”

  “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

  “You fucked that slut in our house! In my bed!”

  “It was my bed. When we moved in together we combined furniture. I had the bed. You had the bureau, couch and end tables.”

  “But they were my sheets! You fucked her on my sheets!”

  She had me there. Lisa and I also screwed on Stacy’s couch, but I didn’t think this was a good time to bring it up. So I said, “Look, I’m sorry for what I did. I’ve told you that. Hundreds of times. Sorry and ashamed. And I paid for it with a divorce. But the fact is,” I went on, “this all happened five years ago. We’re divorced. Leading separate lives. Our marriage and my affair are history.”

  Rage still contorted Stacy’s face. “Just tell me one thing. When you heard Lisa Montgomery’s name today, when you realized you’d be seeing her, did you think, ‘Hey, maybe I’ll get to sleep with her again?’ ”

  Yes, I thought. “No way,” I said.

  The Captain stood up. “What difference does it make? Unless we get our act together, in a few days Lisa Montgomery and Gideon will probably both be dead.” Mary Rocket always did have a way of cutting through the bullshit. She turned to Stacy. “I’m going to reassign you. You’re clearly too invested in the personalities of the case to continue.”

  “No, Captain, you can’t take me off the case.”

  “I just did.”

  “The press will think I’ve been reassigned because of the Magic Land fiasco.”

  “I’ll admit a sacrificial lamb spin is certainly possible. Let’s be honest: you fucked up big time at Magic Land.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ You fucked up the surveillance then got David Hunter killed. Mistakes I’d expect from a lot of cops, but not you. You’re too good. So there’s only one way to explain your clouded judgment. Gideon. Unfortunately, your ex-husband is now at the center of this investigation and you continue to demonstrate an inability to handle your emotional baggage. So, you’re reassigned. Report to Hernandez at the Vice desk. Now.”

  Stacy was furious. There was so much she wanted to say, but knew that saying anything to Mary Rocket would only get her into deeper trouble.

  She turned from the Captain to me. “Good luck,” she said through tight lips and exited.

  Mary Rocket shook her head. “What a waste.”

  “Because she’s such a good cop?”

  “No, because you two made such a good couple.”

  We did, I thought, wistfully. “No way,” I said, angrily. “That relationship had ‘train wreck’ scrawled all over it. Anyway, Lisa Montgomery getting a ransom note may actually be good news.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Another ransom note means another ransom drop. And this time we’re going to catch him.”

  Ten-Percenters Are A

  Dime A Dozen

  “This could be your big chance.”

  “Forget it, Elliot.”

  “But they’re all calling. The Enquirer. Extra. Star. I asked and you answered. Single yourself out from the crowd, I said, and you’ve done it! You know that thing about fifteen minutes of fame? Well, someone just punched your stopwatch.”

  I was driving west on Sunset Boulevard, just passing the Beverly Hills Hotel, on my way to Lisa Montgomery’ house in Brentwood. Mary Rocket had wanted to come with me. But I said the Gravesnatcher has insisted on no cops, and he might be watching the house. So she’d reluctantly agreed to let me go solo

  Meanwhile, my agent Elliot was figuring out a way to capitalize on the Gravesnatcher’s murder spree. “I’ve already talked to the publisher. I asked them to pull all copies of Rear Entry, then reissue it with a new title and cover art.”

  “What new title and cover art?”

  “That depends. See, I’ve got two ideas. If you catch the Gravesnatcher, there will be a picture of you and the murderer, with a caption that reads: ‘From the man who buried the Gravesnatcher, a startling look into the mind of a murderer.’ Then the title: Death of the Gravesnatcher.”

  “But Rear Entry’s about a grizzled old PI, his young, naïve nephew and the porno star the kid falls in love with.”

  “I admit the cover might confuse a few people, but the book’s good, so fuck ’em.”

  “What is the second idea?”

  “This one will sell more books, but you won’t really get to enjoy the success.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll be published posthumously.”

  “After the Gravesnatcher kills me.”

  “Exactamente. The cover will be a picture of your grave. And this is my favorite part, the new title’s on your headstone! Great, huh?”

  “Inspired. What’s the new title?”

  “Ultimate Sacrifice. Dig the caption: ‘Read the tragic story of Gideon Kincaid’s brutal murder at the hands of the bloodthirsty Gravesnatcher.’ ”

  “I’d point out again that neither the title or slug line have anything to do with Rear Entry. Still, if I’m into your flow, your response would be something like, ‘Fuck ’em.’ ”

  “And the horse they rode in on. Opportunity is knocking and we’ve got a revolving door.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “Stir-fry ’em for all I care. Listen to me, Gideon, KACHING! We’re rich! We cash in now with People—they’ll be good for at least a hundred grand. Then we refuse to talk to the press until this monster is caught. Silencio. But once the Gravesnatcher’s behind bars—or, better yet, shot to death in a desperate, bloody gun battle, where you, though seriously wounded, heroically fight back, and finally kill him—once the Gravesnatcher is history, we open negotiations. Book rights. Movie rights. Action figures. Tee shirts. Coffee mugs. Lunch boxes. The whole ball of wax. You’ll be a household name and I’ll be recognized as the marketing genius who made it all happen.”

  “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to trick people into buying my book. Rear Entry is good. But if people buy it thinking it’s about the Gravesnatcher they’re going to be pissed off. They’ll hate a book I’m proud of. A book they might’ve liked under normal circumstances.”

  “Nobody’s buying your damn book.”

  “But if I get a little publicity from the Gravesnatcher case I’ll mention I’m also a writer and the curiosity factor should sell a few books.”

  “Listen to yourself. Sell a few books. Bubele, I’m talking New York Times bestseller list. Amazon Top Ten. Book of the Month Club.”

  “I won’t lie about Rear Entry,” I snapped. “It is what it is. If you’ve got a problem with that, then I’ve got the wrong agent.”

  You could almost hear him shifting gears. “Lie? I’d never ask you to lie. I was just testing your integrity, Gid-baby, and I’m proud to say you passed with flying colors.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “All right, I’m sorry. I’m trying to make you rich and famous. Shoot me.”

  He was trying to lay a guilt trip on me, and it had worked. Frankly, Elliott was only saying out loud the same things I’d been thinking. Everybody else cashes in whe
n fate points a finger at them. Why not me? Everybody else does the talk show circuit, sells movie rights, writes books. Why not me? I’d make enough money never to have to peek, pry or probe again. I could buy a big house with a fabulous, book-lined den and write any book I wanted on a polished mahogany desk, in front of a warm, crackling fire.

  So what was bothering me? I didn’t quite know. Couldn’t put it into words. It was a feeling. No, more than that: a conviction. Call it instinct. Or integrity. Deep down I knew what was right and wrong.

  “Look, Elliott, I appreciate all the thought you’ve put into this. And I do think the Gravesnatcher may end up being a great, if morbid, opportunity. But I want to come through it with my life and my dignity.”

  “Say no more, Gid-man, we are in perfect sync. I will simply collect the barrage of offers, telling your adoring suitors we will have no comment until your selfless role of Hollywood hero has come to an end. Or some such shit.”

  Ain’t Hollywood grand?

  Déjà Vu

  Lisa had come up in the world. The last time I saw her she lived in a funky Laurel Canyon two bedroom; now she had a Brentwood zip code and a sprawling Mexican-style ranch house with stucco walls, tile roof, pool and tennis court—all hidden behind a white stucco wall and protected by a large electric gate.

  There was a buzzer at the gate. A video camera, too. I punched the button. A voice I didn’t recognize asked, “Who is it?”

  I looked into the camera. “Gideon Kincaid.”

  “Come in.” With a metallic squeak, the gate swung open.

  Two cars were already parked in the circular driveway. A classic Mercedes 280, ivory, in immaculate condition. Lisa’s car, I remembered. And a dark blue Lexus LS. I was about to ring the bell when the front door swung open. Expecting to see Lisa, I had my most charming smile in place. It died on my lips as I found myself staring at a short, skinny woman with stringy black hair, a disapproving look in her eyes and a scowl on her face. At once imperious and condescending, she looked at me with contempt. “Let’s see some identification.”