No more.
The soundstage had but one last purpose.
“What. Did. You. Do. With. Her?” asked Herm again.
“Listen, man. I’d never ever done this before,” cried Gabe. “It was just money.”
“How much money?” asked Herm.
“Sure, sure,” realized Gabe. “You deserve your cut, right? Since you saw her first?”
“How much?”
“Five grand. And I’ll give half to—”
Gabe wasn’t able to get the next thought out of his gullet. His words were replaced by a scream as Herm inexplicably stepped in and swung. Low. The ax handle connected with the apex of the photographer’s bent left leg. The knee gave way under the crushing blow, the man’s calf, ankle, and foot flopping as if suddenly unhinged.
“You piece of shit!” angered Herm. “She was in bloom, for Christ’s sake.”
While Gabe continued to wail, Herm circled clockwise.
“Five grand, you dumb shitheel!” bitched Herm. “I was gonna get a hundred! You know why I was gonna get a hundred? Because that’s wholesale on a unicorn!”
Herm punctuated the point with another cut with the ax handle, this time glancing off the meat of Gabe’s skinny forearm which had been instinctively trying to block the next painful blow.
“WHO?” shouted Herm. “Who’d you sell her to?”
“…a guy,” whimpered Gabe.
“WHO?” Herm feigned another blow.
“Armenian.”
“Name!”
“Just a guy I know.”
“Name!”
“Jake, I think.”
“You think Jake? Or you know Jake?”
“I know Jake!” cried Gabe. “Please. She just fell into my lap.”
“Unicorns don’t fall into your lap,” pissed Herm. “You wait for them. Then you thank the god of your understanding when they appear in your orbit.”
“So so so so sorry. I didn’t know what I was getting into. Please. I won’t do it ever again.”
“Like I give a damn what you do next?” said Herm. “I just wanna know how to get in touch with this Jake. Okay? Cuz unless that motherfucker has already moved her, I want what was mine back.”
“Look look look. Get me my cell phone. Left it in my car, okay? I can call him for you.”
As Herm moved closer, Gabe winced as he fully expected more violence. Instead, Herm rolled him right, fishing into his front pocket until he came up with Gabe’s car keys.
“Don’t go anywhere,” snickered Herm.
Stepping from the soundstage, the daylight forced Herm to squint. He was halfway to Gabe’s car before his eyes properly adjusted. An error, Herm suddenly recognized. What if somebody was nosing around? Real estate speculators? Crack abusers seeking refuge or a place to smoke some rock? He did a languid three-hundred-sixty-degree twirl and was relieved that nobody appeared inside the corrugated fence topped with galvanized razor wire. The only two vehicles in the lot fronting the property were Herm’s SUV and Gabe’s Honda. Herm chirped the Accord’s lock, opened the door and easily discovered the mobile device, an extra-large smartphone that bordered on unwieldy. Herm was pocketing the device when his own cell phone buzzed. He switched hands and answered.
“This is Herm.”
“Hi,” said Cherry. “Guess who I got?”
“Sorry,” said Herm, not recognizing the voice despite its familiarity. “Who is this?”
“Cherry…Cherry Pie.”
“Thought I told you not to call me—”
“Unless I came up with my friend, Val,” chirped the dancer. “You remember Valeriana? She came up for air late last night.”
“Your little friend?” asked Herm, slightly askew. “The strawberry blonde?”
“Yes. That Valeriana,” answered Cherry. “Anyway, you wanted us both, right? I found her. Is that Audi job still open for casting or are we too late?”
A muscle twisted in Herm. Just below his diaphragm where he’d had a hernia surgery just three years earlier. It was almost like a bowel kink, registering a sharp involuntary pain.
“You still there?” asked Cherry.
“Yeah…” grunted Herm, before recovering his wits. “The Audi spot. Right. No. Nope. I don’t think that’s closed yet.”
“Swell,” she said. “Sorry about that other thing with that friend I brought. Just trying to make it in this town, you know? Makin’ my own thunder every day.”
“What you gotta do,” said Herm.
“But I got the right girl this time. The one you met. So when do you think?”
“When?”
“The callback?”
“Listen,” said Herm. “Just so I don’t waste your time, let me first check with the agency just to make sure the gig hasn’t totally gone another way.”
“You still got my number?”
“Sure I do,” said Herm. “Call you back later?”
“Make sure I’ll keep my ringer on.”
“Hey. And don’t lose your girlfriend again, huh?”
Herm kept up a straight face for himself and nobody else while he listened to Cherry serve her best serviceable giggle before clicking off the call. Meanwhile, that knot of tension behind his navel cinched even tighter. His eyes fluttered from the pain, his brain shuttered backward to the day before and the stranger he had bumped into at The Casting Place. The man with the cop posture had flashed him that wallet-sized snapshot of Miss Strawberry Blonde.
Aaahhhhhhhhhh.
All of a sudden, Herm could see the strings—the tripwires to a trap that some unknown authority was itching to spring. The lies were flying. And as Herm saw it, he would be the designated victim if he didn’t get wise. And quick.
That fuckhead photographer said he had sold the unicorn.
Liar.
Then Miss Stick a Finger in Her Cherry Pie claims her teen pal Miss Strawberry Blonde has resurfaced, ready for their collective car commercial close-up.
Liar.
Herm marched across to his SUV and threw up the rear hatch. The brand new chainsaw sat on a protective double layer of Hefty garbage bags. Gassed and oiled. But without ever having been sparked. The single piston machine was practically begging to be fired up.
What better time than the present?
In the short walk back to the soundstage door, Herm wondered how loud the two-stroke action of the engine might be. He hadn’t a doubt the soundstage would sufficiently muffle most sonic waveforms. He just wondered which would make the most noise. The screaming of the chainsaw? Or the screaming from the asshole photographer?
45
Karrie Kaarlsen calculated that her time inside the cargo container might have been anywhere between twelve and thirty-six hours. The constant darkness, interrupted only by bathroom breaks, the occasional shout or scream, and the tiny bits of daylight that leaked into her prison cell, might have been reasoned into a tighter timeline. But Karrie found herself sleeping and waking so frequently that any sense of a twenty-four-hour cycle had been erased.
She did get hungry. And thirsty. She was quenched by sixteen-ounce bottles of water stacked just inside the steel door. Next to the bottles was a gallon-sized Ziploc baggie stuffed with chalky-tasting protein bars.
“Doctor break!” announced the voice outside Karrie’s door, followed by the now familiar squeaks of the swing-arm lock as it came undone.
She wondered if she’d heard right. Every so often there had been a double-knock followed by a heavily accented voice shouting, “Bathroom break!”
Doctor break?
The container door swung outward, letting in a blast of filtered daylight. Karrie’s hand came up with split fingers to shield her eyes. She glimpsed the usual guard, a foreigner of average height in a track suit with a nylon stocking pulled down just past his nose. The man’s heavy beard was shiny and already sprouting after a recent shave. Maybe it was morning, she thought. A new day and with it all the possibilities of a fresh deck of cards.
“The doctor,
” said the guard with an impatient gesture.
With a grip that circled her entire biceps, the guard guided her past the other cargo containers—eleven by Karrie’s count—over to a warehouse corner where an unmasked Asian man of grandfatherly age sat on a folding chair. A standard set of general practice medical equipment was on a plastic buffet table.
“Sit,” said the guard.
There was an empty seat across from the Asian man. As Karrie sat, she realized the plastic seat was damp.
“Need to ask you some questions,” said the Asian man. “Basic medical stuff. Nothing to worry about.”
“Why?” Karrie pleaded. Though her question had more of a global interest to it than the micro of the moment.
Why me? Why here? Why now?
“How old are you?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” said the unsmiling man. “How old?”
“Fifteen.”
“Any illnesses?”
“Like colds and stuff?”
“More serious,” he said. “Hepatitis, mononucleosis, cancers.”
“No,” shook Karrie. “Why am I here?”
“Do you know your blood type?”
“No.”
“STDs?”
“Please,” she begged in a shivering whisper. “What’s gonna happen to me?”
“Herpes? Gonorrhea? Sexual disease?” he ignored.
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“Sometimes?”
“Addictions?
“No.”
“Ever had a full pelvic?”
“Like with a lady doctor?”
“Gynecologist, yes.”
“Once,” she said. “My mom let me go on the pill.”
“So you have been sexually active?”
“Yeah.”
“How many men?”
“Men?”
“Boys?”
“Dunno,” paused Karrie, not caring to think about it. “Five?”
“Men?”
“Young men,” she shifted. “Boys, I guess.”
“When was your last cycle?”
“Dunno…two weeks?”
“Regular?”
“I guess.”
“Will need to examine you now,” said the doctor, turning to the table. “Please get undressed.”
Karrie found her own arms holding herself tighter. She tried to will herself to stop shaking. But her body wouldn’t obey.
“Nothing to worry about,” said the doctor. “It’s just like home. Wherever that is.”
“Chenaqua,” released Karrie. “It’s in Wisconsin.”
“Cold this time of year, huh?” said the doctor, still not making eye contact.
Yes, thought Karrie. Cold as hell. And for the first time in her months in Southern California, she yearned for home. She undressed and throughout the physical exam that was never beyond the pulse of perfunctory, she tried to concentrate on her memories of Chenaqua at Christmas. If there wasn’t frost or sheets of ice, it was the snow. The trees with no leaves. But always with the inviting warmth of an electric candle in practically every house window. Inviting, friendly. Home.
God if I could only be there now.
“B-12?” asked the doctor?
“What?” asked Karrie, her voice relegated to a helpless monotone.
“Have you ever had a B-12 shot?”
“Huh uh.” Karrie just shook her head.
“Goes in the tushie,” said the doc. “Little sting but that should go away in a few minutes.”
“Whatever,” cried Karrie.
“Some people say it gives them a little boost.”
“Sweet,” she said, barely the bemoan the moment deserved. “Just tell me this will all be over soon.”
“I’m just the doctor,” said the old Asian man. “Do what I’m told. Best you do the same.”
Karrie barely felt the needle penetrate her flank. The message of pain finally registered in her brain when she saw the doctor disposing the needle and syringe.
Pain, she thought. What she’d give for something to dull it all. Not just what hurt. But the whole of it. SoCal. Life. Her family. All of it. Karrie wished she could make it all just disappear.
46
Studio City. 3:16 P.M.
Andrew’s mobile phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. The hotel was calling him. As was his assistant in Wisconsin, leaving voicemails, emails, and text messages. There were also numbers that went unrecognized. Local area codes. Lucky suggested that those were most likely inquiries from law enforcement. LAPD and the Biltmore’s private security contractor.
“They can all wait,” reminded Lucky. “What happened back at the hotel’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“The only diet drinks they had was Coke,” said Cherry, awkwardly balancing a flimsy drink caddy while climbing back into the car. “And I had them use provolone on your meatball because they don’t have mozzarella.”
While waiting for Herm to call back, Lucky had parked at a random meter along Ventura Boulevard. It was Cherry’s idea to order lunch from Subway.
Uncomfortable with just the one investigative string, Lucky had phoned a few of his old Lennox pals who were still on the job. What information he was able to pass along regarding Herm he expected would return with the significant blanks filled in, such as possible aliases, social security digits, and the all-important last known addresses.
“Diet Coke is fine,” said Andrew, comfortable and semi-reclined in the backseat of the Crown Vic.
“Bottled water works,” said Lucky. If he could’ve gotten away with the truth, he might’ve added, “with a Percocet chaser.” His back wasn’t yet completely howling, but the tension ran all the way down both his hamstrings.
“What if he doesn’t call back?” asked Cherry, distributing the sandwich orders.
“Then we spooked him good. So I follow up on other stuff,” said Lucky. “Corner the asshole and press.”
“What if he gets a lawyer?”
“I’m between cop jobs. I can’t arrest. Which means he can’t lawyer up on me.”
“What you’re saying,” monotoned Andrew, “is that you can be convincing. Hey. If that happens. Break one of his fingers.”
“That’ll make you feel better about it?” asked Cherry.
“Won’t know until it happens.”
Lucky didn’t feel he needed to engage. In fact, with Andrew he felt the less he said the better. He was banking on his short reserve of patience, old law enforcement connections, and some plain luck.
Luck never hurts, Lucky once reminded Gonzo while she tended to him in his rehab bed. He couldn’t help thinking of her every time he saw or heard an overhead helicopter. He wondered if it was her inside the cockpit, piloting the whirlybird. Looking over him as he continued to adventure upon the earth’s surface. He sucked back on that bottle of Dasani, nearly draining it to the bottom when Cherry’s cell phone rang with a retro hip-hop tune.
Gangsta’s Paradise.
Instantly, Andrew was sitting up. Lucky, meanwhile, slid the device from the dashboard to face Cherry.
“Jesus. That’s him,” she read.
“So what’s this mean?” asked Andrew. “He doesn’t know anything about her?”
“We don’t know anything,” said Lucky as he readied to keep Cherry on task. “Whatever, wherever he wants to meet you? Just agree.”
Cherry cradled the phone and delicately clicked both ANSWER and SPEAKER before easing it back down onto the dash.
“Hello?” she said.
“Yes,” said Herm, his voice low and with a deadened resonance. “So you’re saying you have my little unicorn?”
A question mark formed on Cherry’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she saved. “Who is this?”
“You know very well who this is,” said Herm. “As well whoever else is listening. Perhaps that police officer I met the other night at the casting building.”
Andrew flicked a glare at Lucky, quick to assi
gn blame if the plan were to go sideways.
“I’m alone,” choked Cherry.
“Please don’t play with me,” said Herm. “I know you have no intention of meeting me with your young friend. That’s because you don’t know where she is.”
“But she’s right here next to—”
“I’m not a police officer,” interrupted Lucky, sending a shift in the rules of engagement. “Just an interested party looking to recover a lost girl.”
“And so very lost she is,” confirmed Herm. “But though I had nothing to do with her disappearance, I may have an inside track as to her whereabouts.”
“As in where she is now?” asked Lucky. “Do you know where that is?”
“I have information I would be willing to sell,” said Herm.
“How much do you want?” burst Andrew into the conversation.
“Oh,” said Herm. “A third person. Great. How many there am I dealing with?”
“How much?” demanded Andrew. “Since it’s my darn daughter we’re talking about!”
“An actual daddykins,” answered Herm. “My day just got that much brighter.”
“Where can we meet and how much do we bring?” said Lucky, attempting to keep his tone even.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” said Herm.
“For what? Just some information?” angered Andrew.
“Fair number,” said Herm. “It doesn’t cover my losses yet shows me you’re serious. Cash.”
“When and where?” said Lucky.
“Call me when you have it,” said Herm. “Oh. And if you or anyone is recording this, then by listening you should know we are only discussing a transaction. Cash money for information. A legal exchange. No extortion whatsoever.”
What followed was a double-beep, signifying the end of the cellular connection. Herm had made his demand and clicked off the call, leaving Lucky, Cherry, and especially Andrew, utterly hanging.
47
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 52
