Unleashed

by Jacob Stone

  His sickly, forced smile turned sheepish. “I called my buddy Albert. He arranged it.”

  A coolness filled her head as she stared at her husband. “The gun’s not even legal?” she asked incredulously.

  “It will be. I’ll apply for a permit tomorrow.”

  “I don’t care what you do with it, but I want it out of the house.”

  Matt clamped his mouth shut and jutted out his jaw: the look he showed whenever he was going to put on his stubborn-mule act.

  “I’ll keep it in my underwear drawer for now,” he said. “I’ll buy a lockbox for it tomorrow.”

  So that was it. As far as he was concerned, the discussion was over.

  The other night Hannah had made his favorite dinner—lasagna with sausages—so that it would be waiting for him when he got back from his trip. Without saying another word, she took the pan from the refrigerator and put it in the oven to reheat, then walked out of the kitchen, giving him the cold shoulder.

  An hour later they ate dinner together, but Hannah’s cold shoulder had become an icy one. Matt made several half-hearted attempts to chip away at the iciness before slipping into his own sullen mood. After dinner, he marched off to his man cave in the basement while she opened a bottle of wine. An hour later he came back to confront her. He’d had enough of her nonsense!

  “You’re acting like a child!”

  She was sitting at the table, a half-empty bottle of wine in front of her. She turned to face him, and her eyes grew as large as saucers and the color drained out of her face. Seeing her like that made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up, especially once he realized she wasn’t looking at him but past him. He was reacting purely on instinct when he turned around to see what it was she was staring at that had her too frightened to talk. If he had a moment to think he would’ve known better than to do that.

  Right before he was hit, Matt caught a glimpse of a man dressed in black with a ski mask covering his face. Then his world went black.

  Hannah made a mad dash out of the kitchen and Duncan ran after her. Yesterday when he drove to Pasadena he could’ve gotten into their house with a lockpick, but they made it easy for him by keeping a key hidden in a fake rock by the side of the house, and when he broke in he found a note with Matt’s return flight information. He came back tonight thinking he’d find the house empty or Hannah alone; either one working nicely. Instead, twenty minutes ago when he used that same key to gain access to the house, he heard Matt downstairs in the basement and spied on Hannah while she sat in the kitchen sipping a glass of wine. If he tried sneaking down the basement steps, Matt would hear him, so he hid in the hallway closet and waited for Matt to come upstairs. It didn’t take too long for that to happen, and seconds later he knocked the guy unconscious. Duncan just had to hope this time he didn’t kill the sucker…

  He chased Hannah to her bedroom. She was a speedy little thing, but not quite fast enough to lock the bedroom door on him. He was prepared to put a shoulder into it and knock the door back into her face, but she didn’t even try to close it on him. That surprised him. He would’ve expected her to try that in her panic.

  When he stepped into the room, she was rummaging through a dresser drawer. He should’ve been a little faster on the uptake about what she was looking for, and it surprised him when she spun around holding a 9mm pistol in both hands and pointing it dead center at his chest. This happened too fast for him to react, and his shoulders dropped as he waited for her to pull the trigger and send him to hell.

  She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. No loud noise. No bullet firing and blowing a hole through his chest. Nothing other than an empty click. Hannah looked dumbfounded by this.

  Duncan stepped forward and took the gun from her hands. He gave it a quick look.

  “You had the safety on,” he explained.

  He shoved the gun in his waistband and in a quick, fluid motion, he swung the leather sap down on her as if he were swatting a fly. The lead-weighted end of the sap struck her flush on the collarbone and left her in a crumpled heap.

  Chapter 49

  Morris Brick was grabbing some coffee before the eight a.m. meeting when he sensed a person approaching him from behind. He had a good idea who it was from Parker’s excited grunts and the way the bull terrier’s ropy tail began wagging at a fast clip.

  “Good morning, Phil,” he said without turning around.

  Stonehedge didn’t bother to ask how he had figured out it was him. Maybe he assumed Morris had caught his reflection in the coffeepot.

  “What did I do to piss you off?” the actor asked in a low voice.

  “Why do you think you pissed me off?”

  “Easy answer. Because you assigned me to Polk.” Stonehedge further lowered his voice and said, “I swear, the inside of his car smells like bad cheese.”

  Morris chuckled at that. He handed Stonehedge the cup of coffee he’d just poured and grabbed another mug for himself. “It’s the liverwurst and limburger sandwiches,” he said.

  “Huh? Limburger cheese is still something people eat?”

  “Apparently. Years ago when Fred and Polk were partners, Fred made the mistake of complaining about the smell of a sardine sandwich Polk had brought on a stakeout, and after that Polk started bringing liverwurst and limburger sandwiches to be even more annoying. Either he grew to like them or is just too stubborn to admit why he started eating them in the first place. Whichever it is, he still brings them on stakeouts and the stench has saturated the interior of his car.”

  Stonehedge frowned. “He also picks his teeth.”

  “He does do that,” Morris agreed. “Just be thankful you weren’t on a stakeout with him. Those sandwiches give him gas. But to answer your question, you did nothing. The work required me to team up with Annie, as simple as that. But we’ll see where we are after this morning’s meeting. Maybe I’ll be able to take you back under my wing. Anyway, spending time with Polk should’ve toughened you up and helped you get ready for that role.”

  “Toughen me up, maybe. Help me get ready for my role? Not unless David Lynch were directing the movie. He’s not.”

  The thought of that made Morris smile. He finished adding milk and sugar to his coffee, and the two of them walked to the conference room, with Parker staying close beside Morris.

  Morris checked his watch. Ten to eight. Everyone who was going to attend was already seated around the table. Roger Smichen and Doug Gilman were bowing out, since they didn’t have anything to contribute and were busy with other work. Bogle also wasn’t going to be there. He was flying to Boston to look into a murder that happened a year ago. Felger likewise was skipping the meeting, since Morris wanted him instead to keep searching for other crimes around the country that could’ve been done by the Cupid Killer.

  Morris took a seat next to Gloria Finston and Parker trotted under the table and lay down between the two of them so that his head rested on Morris’s shoes. The dog often lay like that, and Morris never understood how that could be comfortable for him. Across the table, Polk sat sullenly, giving him the evil eye.

  “I thought there would be food here,” Polk grumbled.

  “Greta called in an order at Fresca’s.”

  Fresca’s had maybe the best breakfast sandwiches in West Hollywood, and the thought of the food arriving soon seemed to mollify Polk. At least he stopped sulking.

  “Did she order any of their steak and egg on toasted brioche?”

  “Enough so you can have two.”

  Polk crossed his thick arms over his chest. “All right, then,” he said.

  Morris reported on what he knew about the murder in Oakland and the little that Bogle and Felger had been able to find out about the one in Boston, which according to the detective Bogle spoke with was also drug-related.

  He asked the FBI profiler, “Suzanne Markin was killed in Oakland ei
ghteen months ago, Julia Swan in Boston a year ago, both presumably tortured with knives to make their boyfriends divulge where their drug stashes were hidden. Is this the same guy we’re dealing with now?”

  Finston had already seen Bogle’s notes and the police report on Markin’s murder. She hadn’t seen the Swan police report yet, because the Boston detective was reluctant to send Bogle a copy, but that would change later today. Finston had already put a call in to the Boston FBI office, and was promised Bogle would be given the report and that the detective in charge of the case would cooperate fully.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “The Oakland perpetrator used a knife on Ms. Markin, not just to make the boyfriend, Clay Shelby, comply, but because he enjoyed it. But he also kept her clothed and stopped after he got what he was after. There are enough similarities between Ms. Markin and our recent victims to make me think it’s possible, and enough differences to think otherwise. Perhaps what Charlie finds in Boston will help make this clearer. Did this so-called Cupid Killer use the term champ to Alex Frey?”

  “I don’t know. Frey was heavily sedated when we went back to ask him that. We’ll try again when his doctor gives the okay.”

  “Frey didn’t say anything about the perp calling him champ the first time I interviewed him,” Walsh added.

  There was a knock on the door, then Greta stuck her head in to tell them the order from Fresca’s had arrived. Polk volunteered to help Morris carry over the two large bags filled with breakfast sandwiches that had been left by the reception area. He also made sure to be the first one to rummage through the bag he brought back to the conference room, and grabbed two of the steak and egg brioche sandwiches. He was a happy camper when he took a big bite out of one of them.

  Stonehedge asked, “No liverwurst and limburger?”

  Polk gave him a suspicious look. He said, “Put that on a bun with a fried egg and that would be a dream come true.”

  They took a break to eat, and Parker pushed himself to his feet and focused all of his mooching on Stonehedge, who he was perceptive enough to realize was a soft touch. Once breakfast was finished, Morris asked Polk to give them an update on their efforts to identify the Cupid Killer from the Frey and Kincade engagement party.

  “So far nothing but a massive headache,” Polk said as he brushed several crumbs from his lips.

  “Huge headache,” Greg Malevich agreed.

  Polk said, “It took almost half a day, but we compiled a list of everyone at the engagement party; at least everyone who was supposed to be there.”

  Malevich thumbed through a notepad until he found the page he was looking for. “A hundred-and-fifty-nine guests, eighteen employees, and three members of a security firm that were guarding the presents.”

  “It was a royal pain in the ass, but we were able to match up all the gifts to the guests on the list, and we were left with one extra gift.”

  “The cutest couple mugs,” Morris said.

  “Yeah. I was hoping the security personnel collecting the gifts would’ve remembered who gave him the box holding the mugs, but he didn’t. I can’t blame him. He was focused on looking for threats and not on trying to match the guests to the boxes they were giving him.”

  “Where are you with interviewing the guests?”

  “We’re up to our necks, that’s where we are,” Polk said. “We interviewed the eighteen employees working the party—waitresses, waiters, bartenders, and musicians, and none of them noticed anyone acting suspiciously. We talked with Frey’s brother, Todd, and he didn’t have a conversation with any strangers there. We also talked with both sets of parents. Brett Kincade, the dead girl’s old man, threw out three guys who had crashed the party, but his descriptions were worthless. Other than that, we’ve interviewed forty-seven other guests so far and collected a shitload of photos.”

  Malevich found another page in his notepad. “A hundred-and-thirty-six,” he said.

  “Most of these photos are of the happy couple,” Polk said. “But they all have people in the background, sometimes as many as a dozen. We need to blow up each one and identify everyone in them. So far, it’s been a long, painstaking process.”

  Morris said, “I’ll give Doug Gilman a call and see if the LAPD can loan us more bodies.”

  Polk scratched lazily at the back of his neck. “You could also pull Fred off whatever he’s fooling around on and get him to do some real work like the rest of us.”

  Walsh’s phone vibrated loudly enough to draw Morris’s attention. She gave the caller ID a quick glance before answering the phone. Her eyes slitted and her expression grew tense as she listened to whatever the person on the other end had to say. A half-minute later she put her phone back down on the table and looked angry enough to spit nails.

  “We’ve got another victim,” she announced.

  Chapter 50

  Fred Lemmon wished he had been able to plant a bug in Hardacher’s phone, but sometimes you just have to make do with what you have.

  He finished his fourth coffee of the day, then turned his wrist so he could check the time. Not even 9:30 yet. He was dragging badly that morning, and would be needing a lot more coffee that day. If he could only attach an IV bag directly to a vein, but even that might not be enough.

  He closed his eyes and pictured a giant vat of steaming coffee. The high-octane stuff. He imagined diving headfirst into it and doing a backstroke.

  He had good reason for being tired. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. Months, actually. It was all the uneasiness and bad vibes he picked up from Corrine, and it had only gotten worse since he had brought Wendy Hardacher into their home. Wendy had been quiet, unobtrusive, and really the perfect guest, mostly keeping to herself in Alexis’s bedroom (his daughter was away at college), but that hadn’t stopped the accusing looks from Corrine, as if Lemmon had ulterior motives. Now, if it had been Annie Walsh instead, Corrine would at least have had just cause for her suspicions…

  But enough feeling sorry for himself. He was sitting in his car a mile from Hardacher’s house, and so far that morning Hardacher’s car hadn’t moved and he hadn’t picked up any sounds from Hardacher’s home office. Lemmon didn’t even know whether the target was still home. Someone could’ve picked him up. Or he could be in bed. Maybe his girlfriend came over last night for a booty call, and they were still screwing around in there.

  Lemmon should’ve bugged the bedroom also. If he hadn’t been so sleep-deprived, he would’ve suggested that to Wendy. Well, he needed to find out whether Hardacher was home or not. He started up the engine and pulled away from the curb. He would bring a briefcase to Hardacher’s door and ring the doorbell. If Hardacher answered, he’d act as if he were selling siding, and if Hardacher didn’t come to the door, Lemmon would use the house key Wendy had given him.

  His cell phone beeped. He pulled over to the curb and saw that it was the app Felger had installed. He fiddled with the display so that it would show where Hardacher was heading.

  * * * *

  Lemmon followed Hardacher first to LA’s fashion district, and then to a public parking lot for the Santee Alley flea market. The parking lot had a second entrance on the other side of the block and Lemmon headed to it so that he wouldn’t be following Hardacher into the lot.

  He found a spot on the street. The app showed that Hardacher had parked his car. Lemmon listened in on the bug planted inside Hardacher’s car, and could hear the car running and country music playing over the radio. Aside from Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings, Lemmon didn’t much care for country music. Polk, though, loved that stuff.

  He used field glasses and spotted Hardacher sitting in the car. Five minutes later, Hardacher turned off the engine and radio, then stepped out of the car. He looked bewildered as he stood for a minute, and then started walking a slow loop around the parking lot, as if he were searching for someone. He returned to his car and got back inside.


  Lemmon settled in for what he thought could be a long wait. The Santee Alley flea market was about as opposite to Rodeo Drive as you could find in Los Angeles. The flea market was filled with cluttered kiosks selling cheap clothing and other merchandise, just like the stores lining the area. This wasn’t a bad place to set up a meeting. It would be easy enough for someone to run out of the parking lot and get lost in the flea market crowd or hide in one of the surrounding stores.

  It was maybe fifteen minutes after Hardacher pulled into the lot that Lemmon spotted a woman wearing a long trench coat, a big floppy hat, and dark sunglasses that hid half her face, approaching the car. Lemmon had his camera ready on the passenger seat and took several photos of her before she ducked into the back of Hardacher’s car so that she was seated directly behind him. Lemmon turned the volume up on his phone in order to hear everything they said. The app would also be recording their conversation.

  Hardacher started to twist around to get a look at her. She told him to keep facing front and he followed her order.

  Hardacher: I thought I was meeting Spenser.

  Woman: That’s not even his name.

  Hardacher: I don’t understand. (He sounded genuinely confused.) Is the… um, job done?

  Woman: (mocking Hardacher) You mean… um, did Jack kill your wife like you paid?

  Hardacher: Jack?

  Woman: You’re not too swift, are you? Jack’s the guy you thought was Spenser. And no, your wife isn’t dead. That’s not why I’m here.

  Hardacher: (wising up) What do you want?

  Woman: Listen up, genius.

  The mystery woman must’ve pressed a button for a digital recorder to play back part of a conversation between Hardacher and Jack/Spenser. The voices were tinny and Lemmon had to strain to hear it.