The Love Killings

by Robert Ellis

  “Look,” he said to Avery. “He’s trembling like a little baby boy.”

  Ryan Day let out a groan.

  Andrew spoke through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t you use the DVD I sent you, Day? It was a gift. It cost me money. It would’ve made me rich and famous and given me the life I deserve.”

  Day tried to speak through the gag, but started weeping. A muffled “Please, don’t hurt me” came out.

  Andrew noticed the laptop in Day’s briefcase, set it on the table, and switched on the power.

  “Where were you today, Mr. Hollywood? I looked for you all over town but couldn’t find you.”

  Day muttered something.

  Andrew slapped him on the side of his head. “You want to get kicked again, you shithead? You want to get beaten and smacked and go to the fucking hospital like you did the other night? Tell me where you were?”

  Day shook his head. “On location,” he managed through the towel.

  “On location,” Andrew repeated with delight. “You hear that, Avery? Mr. Hollywood over here was on location.”

  Avery burst out in laughter.

  Andrew glanced over at her as she sat down on the couch, her eyes bloodshot and wild and still all tripped out. Her hair needed to be washed and combed, and as he thought it over, both of them could have used a hot shower and a clean change of clothes.

  He turned back to the computer. On the start page, he saw a handful of media files. The one with today’s date stood out, and Andrew clicked it.

  After a beat, the media player opened and a copy of today’s broadcast of Get Buzzed began playing in the window. It had the feel of a hidden camera with Day standing behind a bush at the front gate of an enormous mansion. The kind of mansion Andrew had always dreamed of living in. The kind of home Andrew had always thought his life as a man of mystery, a headline, and a living legend, maybe even a secret agent, demanded. The building was set on an open body of water with a massive yacht anchored just offshore. There was an Olympic-sized pool and a private beach. The entire property was showy and flashy and reminded Andrew of the way rich people lived in Las Vegas.

  It came down to a matter of lifestyle for Andrew—getting back to the basics. Andrew had always liked his steak overdone, or as they say in fancy French restaurants, well done. Why should his home be any different?

  He pulled himself together and tried to focus.

  A man in a business suit had just exited the mansion and was being ushered by two bodyguards into a long black limo. The camera had zoomed in for the shot, the editor slowing the speed down so that the TV audience would be able to get a good look at the important man’s face.

  Andrew leaned closer to the screen.

  The man looked just like Detective Matt Jones. A grown-up version of Matt Jones. A rich-guy version.

  Andrew turned to the reporter. “Who is this, Day?”

  Day closed his eyes and shook his head again, refusing to speak. Andrew walked over and slapped him on the side of his head again.

  “It’s who I think it is, isn’t it? It’s Jones’s rich old man. The freak who won’t even admit that he’s got a fucking kid. You shot this in Connecticut, didn’t you? That’s where he lives, right? On location in Connecticut?”

  He slapped him with an open hand again, then turned to Avery.

  “How’s your high?”

  She shrugged, then nodded and looked up in confusion.

  “You feel like having sex with this slob? He’s a TV star. It might be good to shoot it.”

  She didn’t get where he was going. He turned back to the reporter.

  “Hey, Day, you feel like fucking my girlfriend?”

  Day appeared to wither. Andrew got up and waved Avery over.

  “Let’s get him out of his clothes,” he said. “Pull his pants down and get his boxer shorts off. I’ll get my phone out and shoot it.”

  She smiled back at him. Andrew could see Day cringing as Avery loosened his belt, got him out of his shoes and socks, and pulled his pants down. When she unbuttoned his shirt, he started weeping again, shaking more violently, his eyes losing their focus.

  “What about his shirt?” she said. “His wrists are tied.”

  Andrew knelt down, aiming the camera on his phone at them. “Do the best you can,” he said. “And take off your top.”

  Ryan Day appeared to flinch and shrink back as Avery removed her tank top and pulled his shirt over his shoulders.

  “Do you really want me to take off his boxer shorts?”

  Andrew pulled the phone away from his eye and gave the reporter a good look as he thought it over. He could feel the sweaty man’s sorrow and humiliation and was sickened by him. He could hear him whimpering and pleading like a coward through the hand towel.

  “Forget it, Day. You’re a creep. I don’t want you touching my girlfriend. I’ve got a better idea. Avery, I want to show you something. Go get the gun.”

  Avery ran back over to the couch and picked up the Glock .40 fixed to the STP oil filter.

  “Did you bring that joint with you?” Andrew said.

  She nodded and met his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Better take another hit.”

  “I’m wasted. I don’t think I need it.”

  “Take one just for me.”

  As Avery lit the joint and drew the smoke into her lungs, Andrew moved closer to Day and lowered his voice. “I want to know where Jones’s father lives in Connecticut. You tell me, Day, and we go away. You don’t, and things could get out of control. My guess is that I could probably look it up on the Internet, so it’s not like it’s a big deal. Know what I mean? There’s no reason to not give it up.”

  Avery started coughing and appeared dizzy. She stumbled, reached out for the coffee table, and sat down. Andrew picked up the semiautomatic pistol and put it in her hands.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand and started giggling. “The room’s spinning. I’m hallucinating.”

  Andrew smiled at her. He was in love with her. All the way in love with her.

  “Isn’t she perfect, Day? Isn’t she a knockout? When this is all over, you should fly her out to Hollywood and put her on your show.” He gave the reporter another slap. “Now what’s the address in Connecticut?”

  Day lowered his head and stared at the carpet like he’d just figured out that he didn’t stand a chance.

  “What’s his address, Day?” Andrew repeated.

  Day didn’t respond or even try to respond.

  Andrew pulled Avery over and pointed at Day’s right thigh. “I want you to aim the gun here and pull the trigger. You think you can do that?”

  She was still giggling, still wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Andrew watched her stand up, struggle to find her balance, and move closer to Mr. Hollywood. After a moment, she aimed the pistol at his thigh, but her hands were shaking so violently Andrew had to steady them for her.

  “It’s okay, beautiful,” Andrew said in a gentle voice. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re not even gonna hurt him. In the spy business, they call this a warning shot. Right, Day? You’re a reporter and you won’t tell me what I want to know. We need a warning shot, right, Mr. Hollywood?”

  Day recoiled and became small. “Please,” he kept saying through the gag. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  Andrew raised his cell phone and switched on the video. “Okay, beautiful. You’re up and we’re rolling. Action.”

  “It’s a warning shot, right?” she said, still unable to stop giggling.

  “You got it,” Andrew said. “Take your shot.”

  Avery stepped even closer, the gun still bouncing up and down in her shaky hands. Andrew watched Day’s eyes rise up from the carpet, pass over her black bra until they reached her face, and then, finally, her glazed eyes.

  “No, no, no,” he pleaded through the gag. “No, no, no.”

  Avery pulled the trigger, and the Glock .40, fixed with an STP o
il filter to suppress the sound, clicked fifteen times until the mag ran out. She dropped the pistol on the carpet and turned to Andrew.

  “What happened?” she said in a panicky voice. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Andrew smiled and beckoned her to take a look at what was left of Ryan Day, the celebrity gossip reporter, Mr. Hollywood, laid out before her in a pool of blood.

  She started to giggle again, then stopped and took another hit off the joint.

  “I’m so dizzy,” she said.

  CHAPTER 65

  Matt saw the director of hotel security cross the lobby, heading for his office down the hall. He recognized him from the news clip he’d seen on television a few mornings ago.

  Matt had been trying to get in touch with Ryan Day all night and had become concerned. The reporter wasn’t answering his cell phone or returning text messages. When he knocked on his door, Day didn’t answer and all Matt heard from the other side was silence.

  Still, Matt didn’t start to really worry until he decided to have a drink and saw Day’s camera operator sitting at the bar. Apparently, they had spent the day in New York and Connecticut and returned a couple of hours ago. Day was supposed to meet him for a drink before dinner, but never showed up. When Matt asked what they were doing in Connecticut, he wouldn’t say.

  Matt followed the security director through the door and into his office. The nameplate pinned to his suit jacket read “Mr. Harvey.” Matt guessed that he was in his midfifties and probably didn’t spend too much time at the gym.

  “May I help you?” the man said.

  Matt could see recognition showing on his face. He seemed spooked and a little jumpy.

  “I think something’s happened to my friend in nineteen twenty-seven. We need to check on him. You need to bring your master key and open the door for me.”

  Harvey sized Matt up, then shook his head and winced. “I know who you are, Jones. I saw it on TV. I don’t have to do anything.”

  Matt grabbed him by the shoulder. “We can talk about it in the elevator. I’m in a hurry.”

  The security director gave Matt a push and pulled away. “You helped a serial killer escape, for Christ’s sake. I don’t care who’s paying for your room. I don’t like you. I’m gonna have you thrown out of the hotel.”

  The man made a mistake and pulled a walkie-talkie out of his jacket pocket. Before he could bring the device to his mouth and press the Talk button, Matt batted it onto the floor and grabbed him by the collar. Mr. Harvey struggled, but it was pointless. Matt moved in closer, nose to nose, his voice low and dead.

  “There’s no time for this, Mr. Harvey. Believe me—wrong guy, wrong night. Do I need to frighten you? Do I need to threaten you or scare you? Do I need to arrest you? Is that what it’s going to take for you to do your job? I can do all of the above, but we’re wasting time. Now let’s go.”

  Matt released him. After a few moments, the security director picked up his walkie-talkie, pulled himself together, and nodded with a frown.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They walked out and rode the elevator up to the nineteenth floor without exchanging a single word. That troubled feeling in Matt’s gut had become overwhelming. Day was a reporter. Reporters returned calls. It was in their nature to return calls.

  They started down the hallway. He noticed the security director’s eyes get big as he drew his .45 and chambered a round from a fresh mag.

  “Give me the key card, Mr. Harvey. And you’ll need to stand back.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  They reached the door, and the security director handed over the master key card. Matt slipped it into the reader, heard the lock click, and pushed open the door an inch at a time.

  His eyes raced across the room, then screeched to a stop when they landed on Ryan Day’s bullet-ridden body. He drew the door closed to block the view and closed his eyes. He’d sensed it, but wasn’t ready to see it.

  “Do you have your walkie-talkie, Mr. Harvey?”

  The man stammered nervously. “Yeah, what is it? What’s in the room?”

  “Call the police,” Matt said. “Tell them Ryan Day’s been murdered. And do yourself a favor. Step away from the door and don’t look inside.”

  Matt heard the security director make the call over his walkie-talkie, then opened the door and entered the suite. He took in the crime scene, cataloging the details in rapid succession. The spent joint on the coffee table, and the burn mark it left on the wood. Papers dumped all over the floor. The refrigerator door standing open, the drinks and snacks looted. It looked like Day had been stripped down to his boxer shorts in order to humiliate him as a man and as a human being. He’d been bound and gagged and shot so many times that he was barely recognizable, his wholeness, his person, chopped into body parts.

  Images surfaced. Pictures in his mind of the baby-faced psycho bitch behind the wheel of her car, and Andrew Penchant with his blond cornrows, sitting at the bar the other night, making some sort of deviant play. Matt could feel the clouds moving in over his soul. His emotions dragging him into the thunderstorm.

  He knelt down, kissed the first two fingers on his right hand, and touched Day’s forehead. The reporter had helped him when he needed it most. But it was more than that. Ryan Day had given him back his family. His history. His roots.

  Matt sensed movement and turned to the doorway. Mr. Harvey was staring at Day’s corpse and appeared to be panic-stricken.

  Matt walked over to the laptop, slipped on a pair of vinyl gloves from his pocket, and touched a key. When the computer woke up, he saw the media player on the screen and pressed Play.

  For several moments his mind remained numb like he was just going through the motions. He saw the mansion, the yacht, and the limo waiting before the front entrance, but nothing seemed to connect or register. And then the door opened, and a man who looked quite like himself walked out and climbed into the limo.

  His father was exiting his mansion on the Sound.

  Ryan Day had found him. A big thought with an even bigger ending.

  Matt felt his skin flush as he worked his way through the idea and its possible consequences. Then he bolted out the door and sprinted down the hall to the elevators. He had a chance, he kept telling himself. He had a chance because when he touched Day on the forehead, when he’d given him his blessing, the reporter’s body was still warm.

  CHAPTER 66

  It wasn’t that Matt forgave his father as much as he had reached a point where he was finally beginning to understand him.

  The idea that his father in all probability had walked out on his wife because she told him her secret was unforgivable. The fact that his father refused to even acknowledge the existence of his son after his wife died of cancer was unforgivable. But for Matt the worst of all was yet to come. The idea that his father would try to keep what he’d done to both Matt and his mother a secret, the idea that he would hire a man like Billy Casper to gun down his own son and make his entire past go away, was beyond the pale.

  Yet as Matt crossed over the Ben Franklin Bridge and hit I-95 North bound for Greenwich, Connecticut, none of it seemed to matter.

  He didn’t need to forgive the man in order to understand him. And he couldn’t sit on the sidelines and let his father and his second wife and their two sons become Andrew Penchant’s next mass killing.

  M. Trevor Jones, the King of Wall Street, deserved better. It sounded so strange to play those words in his mind. He deserved to be outed in public. He deserved to be incarcerated for attempted homicide, to be living with the population in a federal prison.

  His father deserved to be shunned and disgraced.

  But not killed.

  Matt had sensed this change in his attitude when he first set eyes on the .38 Special hidden between the joists on the third floor of his mother’s former home. He’d sensed it, but he hadn’t been able to bring it to the surface.

  He’d
pulled the insulation away to reveal the murder weapon. The gun that his uncle had used to kill his parents at the age of twelve so many years ago.

  But Matt knew in his heart—knew it then—that he wasn’t built like Dr. Baylor. Repeating what the doctor had done, killing his own father, wasn’t the right answer anymore.

  He reached in and felt the .38 Special still jammed into his jacket pocket. He ran his fingers over the muzzle, and then the cylinder and handle.

  Killing his father wasn’t the answer here.

  His cell phone started ringing. Matt checked the face, saw Rogers’s name, and took the call.

  “I hope you’ve got good news,” Matt said.

  “Greenwich PD sent two units over to the man’s house. They said the place is clear, but they’ll stay until everything gets sorted out. The man has a pair of bodyguards, and both are licensed to carry firearms.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Matt said. “Thanks, Rogers.”

  The special agent paused a moment. When he came back, his voice had changed and sounded more subdued.

  “He told Greenwich PD that you’re not related, Jones. He told them that he’s not your father.”

  Matt didn’t say anything. He was just grateful that Greenwich PD had been willing to help.

  “I’ll be there in ninety minutes.”

  Rogers cleared his throat. “It doesn’t sound like he wants you to come. He might not let you on the property.”

  Matt let it pass. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m at the hotel with Philly PD,” he said. “But you’ve got enough on your plate. Turn on your radio. And call me when you get to Greenwich.”

  Rogers hung up. Matt switched off his cell phone, cracked the window open, and lit a smoke. It was starting to snow, and he switched on the radio. He’d lost the signal out of Philly and switched to KYW’s sister station WCBS 880 radio in New York.

  There were only two stories. The snowstorm that had become a nor’easter and was expected to hit the East Coast with a vengeance tonight. Hurricane-force winds, flooding with high tide, and two or three feet of snow were only part of the good news. But the big story was Ryan Day’s murder in Philadelphia, the host of the popular TV show Get Buzzed, and the manhunt for Andrew Penchant, a twenty-one-year-old who allegedly murdered his mother and her boyfriend and was believed to be traveling with a younger woman who still hadn’t been identified.