Hillary looked at me like I was crazy, but not Mary Rocket. She actually said, “I have heard worse ideas.”
Encouraged, I kept selling. “You can’t put me with a stranger, Captain. Someone I don’t know, can’t trust. If it’s not Stacy then it has to be someone I’ve worked with before.”
“No,” Mary Rockett said, “the more I think about it, the more I think Stacy would be the right partner. Okay, if Lisa’s a no show at LAX, you’ve got a deal.”
By nine-fifteen it was clear that Lisa had never gone to the airport. Joan Hagler had told us she’d booked two seats to Hawaii on United, and a call to the airline confirmed it. But Lisa didn’t show up for the flight. She was MIA so, using the speakerphone on Lisa’s desk, Mary Rocket called Stacy.
“Hello,” Stacy said through a mouthful of food.
“Stacy, it’s Captain Rocket.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, suddenly all business. “It’s awfully noisy in here. Hold on while I step outside.” We heard Stacy say, “I’ll be right back,” to someone I knew was Piccolo, and then we heard ambient restaurant sounds.
“Sounds like she’s in a restaurant.” Mary Rocket whispered to me.
“Spago’s,” I said, and instantly regretted it.
“How do you know that?”
“Just a guess.”
“Okay, I’m back,” Stacy said. The background was quieter now, just light street traffic.
“You’re back on the case, Stacy. Lisa Montgomery has flown the coop and we need you to double her at the drop tomorrow.”
“Do I have to work with that limp-dicked asshole, Gideon?”
I knew Stacy wanted to keep up the pretense that we still hated each other, but limp-dicked asshole?
“Careful, Detective, I’m on a speaker phone and he’s here with me.”
“Oh, in that case, do I have to work with that microscopically small, limp-dicked asshole?”
“Oh, this is going to work ...” Hillary muttered.
Mary Rocket said, “If you don’t want to work with him, Stacy, just say so. I can always assign someone else.”
“No, the case is bigger than my enmity for Gideon.” Enmity? Stacy was definitely spending too much time with Piccolo. “Just out of curiosity,” she continued, “whose idea was it to use me?”
She was testing, making sure I was keeping my end of the bargain. “It was mine,” I said. “I’ve put my enmity on hold, too. But don’t worry, as soon as we catch the Gravesnatcher I promise to hate you with all my heart.”
“What heart?”
“Okay, I’m glad we’ve got that straightened out,” Mary Rocket jumped in, trying to preempt further argument. “There’s a chance the Gravesnatcher’s watching Lisa’s house, so Stacy, report to my office at seven a.m. I’ll have Special Operations arrange for a wig and a makeup man who’ll turn you into a Hollywood superstar.”
“We better be careful who we tell about this,” I said. “I think Piccolo’s right about one thing. I think a cop is working with the Gravesnatcher.”
Mary Rocket didn’t buy it. “Just because Jason Tucker hasn’t left any forensic evidence? He’s been in jail for the last few years; that’s like getting a PhD in crime.”
“There’s something else. He planted a cell phone in my office. Called me on it.”
“He did? Why didn’t you tell me? What did he want?”
I had to be careful here. Mold the truth to keep me out of trouble but still get the point across. “He warned me not to tell the cops about the Hollywood Bowl drop location, that’s all. But I hit the SEND button, to see if he’d made any calls with the phone, and got Robbery Homicide.”
Mary Rocket was floored. “Shit.”
“Now, he may just be fucking with us,” I said. “But maybe not. I don’t think we should take any chances. I don’t think Stacy should tell anybody about her taking Lisa’s place. Not even Piccolo. We should keep this on a strict need–to-know with as few people dealt in as possible.”
“I agree,” Mary Rocket said. “I’ll hand-pick everyone. Now, what kind of car did Lisa drive?”
“An ivory, 280 Mercedes.”
“Nice wheels,” Stacy sniped. “I guess waving your tits in front of a camera has its rewards.”
“Depends on the tits,” I said.
“So now something’s wrong with my tits?”
“You have great tits, Stacy.”
“Then why am I driving a Honda?”
“You used to drive a Lincoln. You traded it in for the Honda to get better mileage.”
“I drive a Prius,” Hillary said. “And I’ve been told I have, like, perfect breasts. So don’t get caught in the self-image spiral, Stacy. It’ll suck you down like a vortex from hell.”
“I don’t give a shit about anybody’s tits,” Mary Rocket snapped, losing it. “Or what kind of car you drive or spiraling vortexes from hell. All I care about is catching the Gravesnatcher. Anybody confused about that?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll find us an ivory 280 and at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, after Stacy’s been transformed into a Lisa Montgomery look-a-like, she’ll drive back here to Lisa’s house and meet up with Gideon. Then, as instructed, you two will get in Gideon’s car with the backpack full of cash and proceed to the Hollywood Bowl. I’m going to meet with SWAT tonight to plan our strategy. I’ll brief you both in the morning. Anybody confused yet?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Good. Get some sleep, children. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
Tomorrow’s more than just a big day, I thought as I carried the backpack from Lisa’s living room into Lisa’s office. Tomorrow had become very complicated. Somehow I was going to have to tell Stacy about the Gravesnatcher’s demand that I secretly switch the drop location from the Hollywood Bowl to the zoo and convince her to go along with it. I also had to decide whether to tell her about the letter bomb.
Hillary was standing at the office window as I walked in, watching Mary Rocket and Ruiz drive away in the ambulance. “I’ve got the greatest idea.”
“What?”
“Sell your Taurus and buy an ambulance.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know how you hate traffic. Well, if you drove an ambulance you could just put on the red lights and siren and everyone would, like, pull over.”
“That is such a good idea, it can’t be legal,” I said, stuffing the first stack of hundreds into the backpack. This talk of ambulances and cars reminded me of something Hillary had said earlier, her crack about driving a Prius and having perfect breasts. I realized I’d never looked at her breasts in any qualitative way, and as stupid as this sounds, I decided I had to look now. I surreptitiously glanced at her standing at the window. She was still looking outside, so it was safe to drop my eyes to her breasts.
Though covered by a bra and yellow polo shirt, they did look pretty good—not too big, not too small.
But what really were the criteria for perfect breasts? Was it just size? Did skin color matter? And firmness? What about the nipples? Nipples have their own size and color to consider. An ugly nipple could ruin an otherwise perfect breast, but a perfect nipple couldn’t save a scarred, saggy mess.
What was I doing contemplating all this? I realized I must be under a lot more stress than I realized. I lifted my eyes from Hillary’s breasts back to her face and found her looking right at me.
“So, what do you think?”
“About what?” I stammered, caught and embarrassed.
“The ambulance? Cool or uncool?”
Whew, she hadn’t seen me looking. “Cool. Check around town, see if you can find us a used one.”
“Okay. Here, let me help you with that.” She crossed to the desk, picked up two stacks of money, handed them to me and I stuck them in the backpack. She handed me two more. I stuck them in the backpack. We had our own assembly line going.
&nbs
p; “I’ve never seen this much money before,” she said. “It’s almost too much money. It doesn’t seem valuable when there’s so much of it. Kind of like too much of the same word. You know, if you write a word, like say, LOVE, it seems special. But write it down ten times: LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE, and it loses all meaning. Stare at it and it doesn’t even look like a word anymore.” Then her eyes shifted from the money to the battery, wires and six-by-three rectangles of gray C-4 I’d rested on the edge of the backpack. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really, what is it?”
“Better if you don’t know.”
She stopped passing me the money and leaned in closer to the letter bomb. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like a bomb.”
“If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck ...”
“You’re putting a bomb in the backpack? You can’t do that!”
“Well, write the word BOMB ten times and it’ll lose all meaning.”
“Gideon, it’s murder!”
“No, this is a small bomb. Hardly worthy of the name ‘bomb.’ It’ll only blow off his hands, maybe part of his forearms. That’s it.”
“Seriously, throw it away.”
“Seriously, no fucking way. This guy’s killed two people and probably plans to kill Lisa and me. What am I supposed to do, wait for it to happen? Sorry, Hillary. He plays dirty, I play dirty.”
“But something could go wrong. It could go off early, hurt you. Or Stacy. He might open it in a crowd and innocent people could be injured. Or he might lose it and some kid might find it and open it. No, Gideon, it’s too dangerous. Get rid of it.”
“The bomb stays.”
“And if it does go off as you plan and blows off his hands, the police will arrest you for assault with a deadly weapon. If he bleeds to death, it’ll be murder. You’ll go to jail. Is that what you want? Please, Gideon, you’ve got the entire police force to help you catch him, SWAT and everything. Put another AJ-1800 tracer in the backpack, or indelible dye, or something, anything but a bomb.”
“This discussion’s over.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what again?”
“Letting your dark side take over.”
“Don’t even start with the Star Wars analogies.”
“It’ll ruin your life, just like before.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Ernie Wagner. Planting evidence on an innocent man. Getting kicked off the force. Any of this sound familiar?”
“How do you—”
“You got the blues about a year ago, put on that damn Frank Sinatra Live album and drank almost a full bottle of gin. Right after Sinatra sang “One For My Baby,” you got all, like, teary-eyed and told me the whole, sad story.”
“Remind me to drink alone from now on.”
“Afterwards, I asked you the ultimate question. If you had it to do over again, would you still plant the knife? Remember what you said? Of course not, you were too drunk. Well, you said no, you wouldn’t. You told me planting that knife ruined your life. If somehow you could stop time, take back one decision, turn one signpost on the road of life, that would be it.”
“Yeah, well, now I think everything happens for the best.”
“Do you really? If you hadn’t planted that knife you’d still be on the police force. You never would have been a PI. You never would have met Lisa Montgomery. You never would have been involved in the Gravesnatcher case.”
“I never would have met you.”
“I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t. Gideon, you’re standing at that crossroads again. The signpost is right there, wrapped in wire and C-4. Turn that sign now, before it’s too late.”
“The bomb stays.”
“Then I’m leaving. For good. I can’t be part of this. Unless you take that bomb out of there, I quit.”
There was a hardness to Hillary’s eyes I’d never seen before, a determination that reached to her soul. If I’d been thinking clearer I might’ve listened to her, but my dark side had taken over, making me stubborn and stupid. “You want to quit? Fine, quit. I don’t need you anyway. I don’t need anybody.”
“If you could just hear yourself ...”
“Hey, I heard you. You said you quit. So quit! Go on, get out of here!”
Tears sprung from her blue eyes. Her lips quivered, about to say something, but she realized it was useless. With a final plea on her face, Hillary turned and ran out of the room.
I stood there motionless, listening to her footsteps on the floor, the sound of the door opening and closing, her car starting and finally pulling away. I stood there motionless with the backpack, the money, and the bomb, knowing she was right but realizing I didn’t care.
My monster was out again.
Nick and Nora
With the backpack locked up in my apartment safe, I spent a fitful night in bed.
I half expected Stacy to show up with her lock picks. I half expected Hillary to call and unquit. I half expected the Gravesnatcher to call, checking up on me. I even half expected to get a call from Lisa, apologizing. None of the above.
When I finally did fall asleep I dreamt about my parents. We were on our trip to California, checking into the Holiday Inn. Mom and I watched as Dad dropped his suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. Suddenly the suitcase exploded. Dad turned to me, his hands gone, his arms bloody stumps. My mother screamed, “What have you done, Gideon? What have you done?!”
The Gravesnatcher was the lead story on the morning news. Pictures of Jason Tucker were on every channel and the front page of the L.A. Times. I made coffee as Matt Lauer interviewed Mary Rocket about the LAPD’s efforts to stop him. Captain Rocket was coy, giving no indication that she knew anything about the Gravesnatcher’s next ransom demand.
I dropped the backpack in the trunk of the Taurus and stopped by the office on the way to Lisa’s Brentwood estate. I hoped that Hillary would be there, a smile on her face, ready for a new day, sorry about the spat.
She wasn’t. I picked up the phone and called her. It rang once, twice, three times. I pictured Hillary in her studio apartment, staring at the ringing phone, knowing it was me, trying to decide whether to answer. Four, five, six times. Clearly, she was just going to let it ring. With a sigh, I hung up.
I pulled out a Thomas Guide—a book of maps covering the entire L.A. area—and studied the possible routes between Lisa’s house and the Hollywood Bowl. Also an escape from that route to the Griffith Park Zoo. Then I headed for Brentwood.
I knew I was in trouble as I pulled up to Lisa’s estate. I’d spotted two unmarked cars parked on Mandeville Canyon.
Shit. Mary Rocket planned to have us followed from Lisa’s house to the Bowl. This complicated things and had me worried. If the Gravesnatcher was watching the house, maybe he’d spotted them, too.
I punched in the gate code, which Mary Rocket had gotten the night before from the alarm company, and let myself into the house. The message machine light was blinking. I didn’t remember it blinking when I left last night. I hit the button, heard Lisa’s voice.
“Don’t hate me, Gideon. I did save Hillary’s life. And I know that by running away I’m giving up a piece of my own life, giving up any chance of ever having Hudson’s baby. I’m not as brave as you are. I’m not bad, just a coward. Catch him for me, please.”
The message ended as I heard a car door open. I looked out the window to see Lisa climb out of her 280. My heart skipped a beat, thrilled she’d come back. Then I realized it wasn’t Lisa but Stacy in disguise. My heart skipped another beat. She looked great.
I opened the door and took a closer look. Stacy wore a blond wig and sunglasses, both Lisa Montgomery trademarks. And the make-up artist had worked wonders, highlighting her cheekbones and softening her chin. She wore red nail polish. Stacy never wore nail polish, but Lisa did. Whoever had picked her wardrobe had also done a great job. She w
ore a yellow cashmere sweater over a simple green skirt and stiletto pumps.
“Well, what do you think?” she purred, walking past me into the foyer, then doing a pirouette, giving me a three-sixty of the transformation.
“Amazing.”
“Mary Rocket hired Lisa’s makeup man to do the face and her wardrobe designer to do the clothes. She wore this outfit in Heartache.”
“You even walk like her.”
“I’m surprised I can walk at all in these shoes.” She leaned against me. “I’m even wearing her perfume, Obsession. Smell me.”
I traced my nose down her long neck. “Delicious.”
“Me or her?”
“You.” Our eyes met and then our lips, a short but loving kiss. Then, impulsively, I said what I was thinking. “I was hoping you’d come by last night.”
“I couldn’t. Piccolo had me handcuffed to the headboard until almost two a.m.”
“What?”
“Kidding. I’m kidding. I wanted to come over but I was afraid Captain Rocket would find out. If she did, she’d figure out we wanted to work together, and she might’ve been mad enough to pull me off the case again. But I’ll make you a promise,” she cooed. “Tonight I’m all yours ...” She kissed my chin, my nose and then my lips.
As we drove along Sunset Boulevard—past towering palms, sweeping lawns and my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick mansions—Stacy outlined Mary Rocket’s plan for the Hollywood Bowl.
“There’ll be a construction crew building a set on stage. All cops. Three janitors will be sweeping the aisles. Cops, too. And in case the Gravesnatcher somehow gets past all those cops and tries to escape, there are two tree trimming trucks parked across the street from the exit. Only they’re not tree trimmers, they’re snipers. They’ll take out his tires.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Only one problem: the Gravesnatcher’s not going to be there.”
Dead and Not So Buried Page 20
