by Jacob Stone
“Moss was staying at the same place.”
“That’s right. The office manager recognized him from the photo. We’ve got an officer sitting tight in Moss’s room, but something tells me he won’t be showing up again.”
“Anything left behind?”
“Nothing. They use a communal bathroom, so no point in having crime scene examine the shower and sink for any of the victims’ blood—if we found any evidence it wouldn’t hold up.”
“What’s the next step? LAPD advertising Moss to the press?”
“That’s Hadley’s call,” Walsh said. “But I’m thinking it would be better to pick him up quietly than give him a reason to ditch evidence.”
“In that case, Hadley will definitely be advertising it.”
Walsh laughed. “The eternal optimist.”
Morris had returned back to his car by the time his call with Walsh ended, and Parker was pawing at the passenger door, making sure Morris knew that he wanted in.
“Yes, sir,” Morris told the dog.
Chapter 66
Yet another stakeout.
This one was different than most. Than any other, really. Instead of the tedium Fred Lemmon usually felt, the night zipped by as his thoughts kept drifting to the other day when he and Annie Walsh were on a stakeout together at the High Spot Lounge. He knew they were just playacting as a couple, but it felt so right. He kept thinking of how she laughed at his jokes, and the way her eyes just seemed to sparkle so brightly. It seemed like she felt the same connection he did. Like she might even be attracted to him…
He shuddered as the truth of the matter slapped him hard in the face. Of course Annie was acting that way. She was a professional. They were supposed to act as a couple inside the bar, so she was simply doing her job, nothing else. What an idiot he was to get caught up in these fantasies that had no chance of ever happening. And even if by some miracle Annie felt a fraction of what he felt, he was still married to Corrine.
For better or worse.
A beep from his phone alerted him that Jack Readinger’s car had moved. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Twenty to midnight. The night wouldn’t be a complete dud after all and sure enough, seconds later the car came rolling down the driveway from the apartment building and the moonlight provided enough light for Lemmon to see that it was Readinger behind the wheel. The GPS tracker attached to the undercarriage of the car would give him the location in case he lost the tail, so he had the luxury of waiting until Readinger was two blocks away before pulling away from the curb.
Thunk-thunk.
Lemmon got out of the car to see that both his rear tires were flat. A quick examination showed they’d been slashed with a knife. He took out his phone and called Morris.
“Target’s on the move and I can’t follow him,” Lemmon said.
“Why not?”
“Someone sneaked behind my car and slashed my rear tires.”
“No kidding?”
“Would I kid about that?”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Morris said. “I’m fifteen minutes away. I’ll pick up the tail. The GPS tracker working?”
“It was when Readinger drove away. The car is still moving and heading toward Inglewood. A silver older-model Cadillac, I think an Eldorado, drove past me after I came to an abrupt stop. California plates, but I’m guessing they were stolen. Driver was a male, late twenties, wearing a baseball cap. I didn’t get a good-enough look at him to say definitively it was Moss. At least this looks like it’s coming to an end soon.”
Morris sounded tired as he said, “I sure hope so.”
* * * *
Readinger’s car hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Morris knew there was a bar at the address the GPS app was giving him, and he was guessing Moss had followed Readinger there. So Moss would’ve either parked outside waiting for Readinger to leave, or would’ve followed him inside so he could watch him more closely.
Except that wasn’t what happened.
Morris approached the address and saw three police cruisers with lights flashing and a small mob of onlookers. It wasn’t until he pulled up to the scene that he saw Readinger’s car had crashed into a tree. A patrolman was about to tell Morris to keep moving, but he recognized him.
“What happened here?” Morris asked.
“Another car rear-ended this one and pushed it into the tree. According to witnesses, the driver of the car doing the rear-ending hit the other driver with a club, pulled him out of the car, got him into the trunk of his own car, then drove off.”
Morris thanked him and pulled back onto the road. Earlier that day, Polk had placed the GPS tracker on the underside of Readinger’s car, but Morris had also requested that the mayor get a court order to put a tracking chip in the sole of one of the biker boots Readinger was wearing when he was arrested. It was possible that Readinger wasn’t wearing the biker boots when he left his apartment, and Morris held his breath while he fiddled with his phone and brought up the app to trace the location of the boots. The app gave him an address five miles away and in the opposite direction of Readinger’s apartment. When Morris drove to it he saw it was a shuttered school scheduled for demolition, soon to be townhouses.
He circled the building and spotted a silver Cadillac parked on the street. He called Walsh. It rang through to voice mail and he tried again. This time she answered, sounding groggy as she complained that he had woken her from the most beautiful dream. “I was in the ring with Hadley and I had him on the ropes and was tenderizing his midsection with a flurry of jabs. It felt better than sex. What’s up?”
“Something’s going down right now between Readinger and Moss.” He gave her the address of the shuttered school. “I’m heading inside,” he told her. “Bring whatever sized army you can muster.”
“Morris, don’t go in,” she ordered. “I’ll have units there in minutes.”
“Too much static,” Morris said. “I can’t hear you.”
He disconnected the call and turned off the phone. He unholstered the .40 caliber pistol he had brought and flipped off the safety. He didn’t need to check whether it was loaded.
Morris found a fire door with a busted lock. He moved quietly down a hallway with his gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. A rustling noise startled him, and he swung the flashlight to show a rat scurrying away. He stood still and focused to stop his heart from racing, then held his breath and tried to listen for other noises. He heard an eerie, inhuman cry—except he knew in his heart it was very human. A muffled scream from someone who was gagged and being tortured.
He heard the noise again and followed it to one of the classrooms. He swung the door open with his gun stretched out in front of him. Readinger was facing the door. He was bound naked to a chair, a rag stuffed in his mouth, and Duncan was using a knife on him. Both of them were illuminated by a heavy-duty flashlight. Morris’s intrusion sent Duncan ducking behind Readinger with the edge of the knife pressed against Readinger’s throat.
Readinger was bleeding from his forehead to his groin and Morris realized Duncan had carved out words in Readinger’s flesh. Now was carved out on his forehead; underneath was you; have ran down his left cheek; yourself along his right cheek; an at the base of his throat; especially across the full length of his chest; wonderful in big letters and split in two on his stomach; and the words rest, of, and your above his groin. The word life was missing, but Morris was sure Duncan was planning to carve it somewhere.
“Duncan, it’s over,” Morris said. “Put the knife down.”
Morris was standing in darkness, while Duncan faced the heavy-duty flashlight he had set up. He blinked several times as he tried to make out who was interrupting him.
“You’re that detective in charge,” he said. “Brick.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you know why I’m doing this.”
“
You don’t know Readinger is the one that hurt Julia.”
Duncan laughed bitterly. “I recorded this coward confessing to it. All it took was the word now and he was ready to spill his guts, and he gave me details only Julia’s killer would know. When I demanded more proof, he confessed to killing another woman in Oakland the same way. Just give me an hour to finish up here and I’ll make things easy for everyone. I promise.”
“I can’t do that.”
Duncan looked dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t understand why Morris couldn’t give him an hour.
“Julia was the sweetest and most innocent person who ever lived. She saved me in ways you’d never be able to understand, and this piece of garbage butchered her for kicks.”
“The same as you did to Jill Kincade and Meagan Campbell and Hannah Kammer. And the same as you wanted to do to my daughter.”
Duncan looked close to tears as he blinked at Morris, the knife digging deep enough into Readinger’s throat to draw blood. “That’s not true and you know it,” he said. “You know why I did what I did. What would you have done if your wife was butchered like Julia was, and the homicide detective in charge acted like it was your fault?”
“Not what you did.”
“Bullshit. You would’ve done whatever was necessary to find the animal who hurt your wife so cruelly.”
Police cars had arrived at the school. They had kept their sirens and flashing lights off, but car doors could be heard closing and so could a police radio. Duncan grew increasingly agitated as he realized he wouldn’t have an hour with Readinger.
“I’ll kill him, then,” Duncan said.
Morris fired a shot past Duncan’s left ear. He didn’t much care whether Readinger died, but he couldn’t in good conscience let Duncan kill him in front of him. He did, however, care very much that Duncan live. He wanted Rachel and Doug and every person connected to Duncan’s victims to be able to face him in court and to have the opportunity to read a victim’s statement.
“If you don’t drop the knife right now, the next shot will take off the top of your head,” Morris threatened. “I’ll then destroy your phone and no one will ever see the recording you made. Readinger will never be punished for Julia’s murder.”
The sound of policemen could be heard running down the hallway. Duncan blinked several times as he tried to decide whether Morris was bluffing. Either he decided he wasn’t, or he wasn’t willing to take the chance. He dropped the knife.
“He’s unarmed,” Morris yelled.
Four officers came rushing into the room. It was over quickly after that. As they were taking Duncan out in handcuffs, Morris’s phone rang. Rachel.
Her voice broke apart as she cried, “Daddy.” And he braced himself for the worst possible news.
Epilogue
Morris stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean and drank a beer from a small Czech Republic brewery that Philip Stonehedge claimed was his favorite lager. He squinted toward the sun and felt the heat from it warm his face.
A fine day, he thought. A perfect day.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and a familiar voice said, “Morris the booger head.”
He turned to see his sister Esther grinning at him. She wore a sheer peach-colored dress, stood barely five feet tall, and at age forty was still as slender as a teenager. With her long red hair, delicate features, and radiant beauty, she looked so much like their mom that it was startling. He grinned back and said, “Esther the pest.”
They embraced. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said once they separated.
“We’re making a habit of meeting face-to-face,” she said, her grin stretching wider. “Two times now in two years. Do you think you can stand it?”
Esther had moved to London when she was twenty-four, and while they tried to Skype every month, during the last sixteen years they’d seen each other only three times other than today: thirteen years ago at their mother’s funeral, four months later at their dad’s, and roughly twenty-one months ago when Morris and Nat were traveling to Italy on a much-belated honeymoon and Esther brought her four-and-a-half-year-old daughter with her to meet up with them in Venice for the day.
“I think so. Did you bring Isadora?”
“Of course. She’s with Rachel now, getting better acquainted with her and her beau. She has also become fast friends with that brute dog of yours. Izzy has been so proud of Rachel, telling everyone she meets back home how her American cousin will be getting married.” Esther laughed. “She’s become downright insufferable!”
Morris scanned the crowd hanging by the pool and food stations and he spotted his six-year-old niece gathered in a small group with Nat, Rachel, Doug, Stonehedge, and Brie Evans. Izzy was wearing a yellow sundress and was a tiny little thing like Esther had been at that age. She was petting Parker while the bull terrier sat on the ground, grinning happily. Nat noticed Morris and waved to him. He waved back.
“Isadora is beautiful,” Morris said.
“She is and she knows it, making her all that more insufferable. Very dramatic, that one.” Esther’s expression turned somber. “It’s almost unimaginable what Rachel and her intended went through. I saw the interview you gave on that tabloid show, and it made me want to cry. And to think, you were the one who arrested that demented creature.”
Morris briefly flashed back to the phone call he’d gotten from Rachel when the police were removing Duncan Moss from the classroom. She hadn’t called him Daddy since she was seven, and the way she burst out crying convinced him the worst had happened. Fortunately, Nat took the phone and explained that the opposite was true. Doug had regained consciousness and promised Rachel he wasn’t leaving her. Rachel wanted to call Morris to tell him the good news, but was too overcome with emotion.
He noticeably shivered. Esther took his hand and squeezed it tight.
“The ordeal is over,” Morris said. “Doug is already looking like his old self and doctors expect a full recovery. How about we head back to the party? I’d like to spend some time with my adorable niece, even if she is insufferable.”
“A splendid idea.” Esther peered out at the horizon. “Nothing but clear skies ahead.”
She could be excused for thinking that. She had no way of knowing about the evil brewing in the Hollywood Hills.
Acknowledgments
I would first of all like to thank my editor, Michaela Hamilton, as this book, as well as my Morris Brick thriller series, wouldn’t exist without her. I’d also like to thank my publisher, Steve Zacharius, for believing in this series and publishing these books.
In advance, I’d like to thank the Kensington team who’ll be supporting this book and doing their magic to make it shine: Lauren Jernigan, Michelle Addo, Vida Engstrand, Lauren Vassallo, and Alexandra Nicolajsen.
A big thanks also to my college buddy Alan Luedeking who, as with all my books, muddled through my initial draft and helped smooth out the language. Also my longtime friend (since second grade) Jeff Michaels for also providing feedback.
As always, I’d like to thank Judy, my wife and best friend, for her encouragement and support, and for also helping to make my manuscript more readable.
Special Bonus!
In case you missed the first Morris Brick thriller, keep reading to enjoy the opening pages of Deranged…
Available from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Chapter One
As usual, Henry Pollard made sure that he was so gentle that he could’ve been cleaning dust off a dragonfly’s wing as he sponged the soap suds from his wife’s ruined body. He tried not to think about how much Sheila had physically deteriorated, but at times he’d let his guard down and his thoughts would absently drift to the subject, and it would stun him. The accident happened five years ago, back when his wife was only thirty-three. A robust woman brimming with strength and
good health, and at five feet six inches and one hundred and forty-five pounds, she certainly wasn’t overweight, more buxom and full-figured. To Henry, she had been breathtakingly beautiful.
The accident had left Sheila paralyzed on her right side, with her body twisted in an unnatural way. It had also left her with a weakened heart and a damaged liver. Four months ago, she had shriveled down to just seventy-four pounds, but it was better now that she was voluntarily eating again and he no longer had to force-feed her. When he last weighed her three days ago, she was back up to eighty-three pounds. It was still an unhealthy weight for her, but at least it was better.
Once Henry finished rinsing the soap off of her, he wrapped a freshly laundered plush Egyptian cotton towel around her body and patted her dry. He grimaced as he studied her hair. It looked grimy to him. Felt so too. Before the accident her hair was a source of pride to both of them. Thick, long, and curly, and with a golden luster that so perfectly accentuated her round, apple-cheeked face. He had grown to hate washing her hair. Not because it forced him to accept how brittle and gray her once luxurious hair had become, but because every time he did so long strands of it fell out. Of course, she no longer had a round, apple-cheeked face either. Now her cheeks were sunken, the flesh badly desiccated.
He decided washing her hair could be put off for another day or two, and instead wetted a comb and ran it through her hair, untangling several stubborn knots. Sheila’s left eye winced as he did this, but otherwise she sat stoically without uttering a sound. When Henry was done, he grimaced as he saw that the comb had pulled out many more long strands of his wife’s hair. He turned his back to her so he could block her view and keep her from seeing all the hair she’d lost. After he had the comb cleaned out, he lifted her from her seat in the bathtub and carried her to the bedroom so he could dress her. Henry might’ve looked squat and doughy, almost like a badly formed lump of clay, but he had immensely powerful hands and arms, and he could’ve easily lifted Sheila even if she had weighed three times what she did. After he had clothed her in a yellow summer dress that was the same color her hair had once been, he put her in her wheelchair and rolled her to the kitchen.
