Unleashed
Page 1
The Experts Praise Jacob Stone and His Thrillers
“Whether he’s writing as Dave Zeltserman or Jacob Stone, you can expect the best in suspense writing.”
—Max Allan Collins
“Dave Zeltserman is one of the best suspense writers in the business, and his Jacob Stone thrillers are not to be missed.”
—Steve Hamilton
Unleashed
“A roller coaster ride between covers! A skillful blend of psychological and investigative thriller writing, Unleashed brings back the great Morris Brick and his crew, who have to stop a horrific series of murders in L.A. Rarely is an author so skilled at portraying such unremitting evil and the poignant, human side of his characters in a single tale.”
—Jeffery Deaver
Malicious
“A killer with a penchant for Rube Goldberg devices has been leaving calling cards for Brick as he slaughters Hollywood actresses one by one, with the goal of destroying all of Los Angeles. Zeltserman’s writing is smart, witty, and edge-of-your-seat thrilling.”
—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
Crazed
“Moves fast and makes for entertaining reading…Great stuff if you like serial killer thrillers and highly recommended.”
—Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine
Deranged
“Deranged is a dark and different serial killer novel that will haunt the reader long after the book is closed and back on the shelf. Author Jacob Stone transfixes us with dread, and something more. He has the rare capacity to startle. Read if you dare.”
—John Lutz
“Deranged is a fascinating and exciting blend of misdirection, topsy-turvy, and violence.”
—Reed Farrel Coleman
“Gutsy and written with such casual grace, as if the author were sitting across the bar from me, telling me the story, Deranged just might be one of the most compelling, thrilling and truth be told, at times look-away-from-page-frightening serial killer novels I’ve read in a long, long time.”
—Vincent Zandri
“Los Angeles has seldom seen such grisly fun. It’s James Ellroy meets Alfred Hitchcock in a bloody, yet bizarrely humorous romp on the psychotic side of the street.”
—Paul Levine
“This series comes out of the gate swinging with the first offering, Deranged. Morris Brick’s determination and grit make him a great hero for a thriller series. The surprise twists really kept me engaged. I hope to see Brick have a long shelf life.”
—Outofthegutteronline.com
Also by Jacob Stone
DERANGED
CRAZED
MALICIOUS
CRUEL
Table of Contents
The Experts Praise Jacob Stone and His Thrillers
Also by Jacob Stone
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Special Bonus!
About the Author
Unleashed
A Morris Brick Thriller
Jacob Stone
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Jacob Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0640-0 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0640-7 (ebook)
First Print Edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0641-7
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0641-5
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Eric Sockol
Chapter 1
Morris Brick woke up with the sound of a key unlocking the front door, which was quickly followed by the heavy thumping of his bull terrier, Parker, scampering down the staircase. He didn’t have to look at the alarm clock on the shelf next to him to know it was seven o’clock. That was the time he had arranged for their twenty-five-year-old occasional dog walker, Kat McKinty, to pick up Parker, and Kat was not only cheerful and dependable, but always punctual enough to set your watch by. Last night he’d decided that he and Natalie could use a late-morning sleep-in, so he’d arranged for Kat to take the bull terrier to Laurel Canyon dog park, which just might be Parker’s favorite spot in the world that didn’t involve food.
Although the bedroom door was closed, he heard Parker at the front door letting out several excitable grunts, and Kat shushing him. He knew she was trying to be quiet, but he still heard the door clicking shut when it closed. What could he say? He had ears like a bat. At least they were big and nearly stuck out as much as a bat’s.
&n
bsp; Natalie had been sleeping on her stomach, but she must’ve woken up too. She rolled onto her side and scooted over so that she was up against Morris. She rested the side of her face on his shoulder and placed one of her small, delicate hands on his not-so-small belly. Morris’s hand found the curvature of her slender, pajama-covered hip.
“Kat must’ve collected the little guy,” she said in a soft, throaty whisper, her eyes cracked slightly open.
Morris turned his head so he could kiss her on the forehead. His voice was not much more than a croak as he told her that Kat wouldn’t be bringing Parker back until ten. “We can actually sleep late for once.”
Nat smiled wickedly and nestled in closer to him. “Not too late,” she said. “I have other ideas for how we can spend the time.”
“Cooking bacon without Parker mooching all of it?”
She laughed at the suggestion. “That wouldn’t be bad,” she admitted. “But I’ve got other ideas and none of them involve leaving the bed. But a little more sleep first.”
Morris soon felt the rhythmic rising and lowering of her chest and heard her light breathing as she drifted back to sleep. Life was good, especially in the wife, daughter, and dog department. Even though he and Nat were approaching their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, she could still make him feel weak in the knees with a smile, and at times he had to pinch himself over his good fortune at not only finding her, but the fact that she seemingly fell as much in love with him as he did with her. Their daughter Rachel was a beautiful young woman who fortunately resembled Natalie more than himself, although she did have his hard, slate gray eyes. She had just started her last semester of law school while also working ten hours a week as an intern in the district attorney’s office, with plans of being hired by them once she passed the bar. And then there was Parker. The bull terrier was six now and was beginning to slow down a bit, but as far as Morris was concerned he was the best dog in the world and any runner-up would be a distant second.
Morris had no complaints about work either. His company, MBI, was flourishing with all the corporate and insurance-fraud cases they could handle, and thank God, no serial killer work since the Nightmare Man terrorized Los Angeles. But it was more than that. When Charlie Bogle left MBI, things didn’t seem quite right at the investigative firm, like they were out of balance. Since Charlie’s return six months ago, things were back to normal again. Better yet, Morris had been able to reduce his workweek to fifty hours, and it had been over two months since he had had to work over the weekend, which meant more late Saturday and Sunday mornings with Nat—at least the rare times when he remembered to call Kat McKinty the night before.
He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of Natalie’s light breathing, and soon drifted off also.
Chapter 2
Duncan Moss bought coffee at the counter and took it outside so he could sit at one of the patio tables. This was a nice, upscale downtown LA neighborhood, and the people walking by all looked nice and upscale. Or at least clean, fit, and well-off. Quite a contrast from the boarding house he was staying at half a mile away. That area could best be described as dingy and downbeat. More than that, a heavy oppressiveness seemed to hang in the air like a bad stench that just wouldn’t go away, and the people living there carried an unmistakable hopelessness. Duncan much preferred that neighborhood. He could barely stand to see all these happy, privileged people who thought nothing bad could ever happen to them. They were so wrong. So very wrong.
On the same block as the coffee shop there was also a bakery, a café advertising Los Angeles’s best breakfast, and a diner, and across the street a small park with neatly arranged flower beds and benches. While it wasn’t quite 9:30 yet, it was one of those near-perfect early spring days, and all of that was enough to bring out a small parade of people. Duncan sipped his coffee and watched as fellow millennials walked past him. Older people were also in the mix, but it was the millennials that he focused on. They were the ones who stirred up a toxic and suffocating mix of rage, jealousy, and psychotic need to cause pain. All of them trying so hard to look hip and cool with their tattoos and piercings; the dudes with goatees, soul patches, and man buns, the women with brightly colored dye jobs. There was barely a pound of body fat among them. They kept themselves in shape by dieting and CrossFit-type training classes. Duncan was also as lean as a rail, but he accomplished this the old-fashioned way: Survival. And while he had never in his life stepped into a gym or taken an exercise class, he had a wiry strength that few of them would’ve been able to match.
Of course, most of them had their noses stuck in their cell phones. Some sort of strange sixth sense kept them from colliding with each other as they crisscrossed on the sidewalk. Jesus, what a bunch! Most of them were so oblivious to the world around them that Duncan could’ve gotten up and punched them in their smug faces without any of them having a clue what was happening until they hit the pavement. As tempting as it was, he stayed seated. He had a plan, after all. Soon he’d be unleashing his rage in a very specific, controlled way. Besides, none of them were what he really needed.
While he remained invisible to most of them, one of them noticed him. A blond woman walking a little four-legged fuzz ball that was supposedly a dog. She was in her early thirties, maybe five years older than him. Slender, yellowish hair that fell past her shoulder, cute heart-shaped face, a short dress showing off long, thin legs. She smiled at him. An invitation of sorts. Why wouldn’t she? He was a good-looking guy with dark features and at the moment was impeccably groomed and dressed smartly in slacks, sports jacket, and boat shoes. He was also making a concentrated effort to show only a carefree, pleasant expression. If this was four months ago, she wouldn’t have smiled at him, and not just because he lived 3000 miles away in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood of Boston. If she had caught sight of him then, she would’ve fled to the other side of the street. Back then he was a mess. He had gone over a month without showering or shaving or changing his clothes, and almost six months without getting a haircut or even combing his hair, but more than his ragged, disheveled appearance, it would’ve been the craziness shining in his eyes that would’ve frightened her. He had reached rock-bottom and was consumed with dark, suicidal thoughts. He no doubt would’ve ended his life had he not received the postcard when he did. It had been mailed from Los Angeles, and at first it nearly sent him out of his mind with rage and homicidal fury, but later that postcard allowed him to see as clear as day what he needed to do. After that, he came up with his plan.
Once he had the plan, everything was okay, at least as okay as it could be. He cleaned up his act—first clipping off his beard and cutting his hair short, then making sure to shower and shave each day, and taking care of other personal hygiene issues. He also made it a point not to glare with homicidal rage at the lucky, happy people he would see, and instead hide his true self behind a pleasant façade. It took effort and concentration, but it became easier once he had his plan. And while the sight of the happy, lucky people made him feel like a heavy stone was crushing his chest, at least he no longer felt like he was on the verge of suffocating. Because he had a plan…
He couldn’t come out to LA right away. He was broke and he needed to raise enough cash to bankroll his plan. It had been almost five years since he had burglarized any homes or rolled drunks or robbed anyone at gunpoint, but certain skills come back quickly, and these were skills that he had always excelled at, and it didn’t take him long to raise the money he needed. After that, he bought a 2002 Cadillac Eldorado for 500 dollars at a police auction, and a week ago hit the road. He drove almost nonstop for two days, drinking enough coffee to keep himself awake, and arrived five days ago in LA. Since then he’d been getting the lay of the land and making plans for where to go hunting. He also bought himself an appropriate wardrobe so he could fit in with the happy, privileged people. Money wasn’t an issue. He had the necessary skills to always get more.
The blonde walking
the fuzz-ball dog slowed down a step, her smile turning more hopeful. Duncan smiled back, but in a noncommittal way. He had no intention of inviting her to join him. She wasn’t what he needed. She tried to maintain her smile as she walked past him, but it cracked, the hurt weakening her mouth and betraying her. He looked past her toward a couple holding hands half a block away. So happy, so much in love. But they weren’t what he needed either. While they were privileged and charter members of the Beautiful People’s Club, they were in their fifties and Duncan needed them to be younger. He needed them to have their whole lives ahead of them, so that the loss and pain would be all that much more profound.
He tilted back the cardboard cup and finished off the last few sips of coffee, then got up, crushed the cup into a ball, and tossed it into a trash can. He didn’t come here to hunt, at least not exactly. If he had seen exactly what he was looking for, he would’ve gotten on their tail. But today was Saturday, and if a person like Duncan wanted to find a young, well-off couple who were oh-so-in-love, why not go directly to the source and crash a wedding?
Chapter 3
Right before waking up Alex Frey was having a delicious sex dream involving Jill. Cruelly interrupted, he lay on his back, disoriented, struggling to hold onto any last remnants of the dream and to get his bearings. His disappointment was further compounded when he reached over and found that Jill was no longer in bed. That was a shame, as he’d been hoping to immediately turn his sex dream into reality.
“Jill, where are you?” he shouted out.
“In the bathroom.”
Okay. Still a chance, then. “The honorable Willie Winkie needs immediate attention!”
“You mean wee Willie Winkie?”
Alex looked down at the pitched tent that had formed in his pajama bottoms. Wee certainly wasn’t the right adjective to use, as Jill knew perfectly well from experience!
“Come on,” he pleaded, desperate. “The more-than-adequate Willie Winkie isn’t going to blow himself!”
He heard Jill laughing. “I’m sorry, love,” she called out. “If he wants to get blown, that’s the only way it’s going to happen. At least this morning. I’m getting ready for later and I don’t have much time.”