by Jacob Stone
They’d left Parker at home during the Hollywood premiere of The Carver, but at Philip Stonehedge’s insistence, Morris and Natalie swung by their West Hollywood home and picked up the bull terrier before driving to Stonehedge’s Malibu estate for his after-the-premiere dinner party.
Natalie hadn’t yet met Stonehedge (although she had caught a glimpse of the actor while they were waiting in line to get into the theater) and she raised an eyebrow as they drove through the security gate and continued along the private road that led to the sprawling contemporary-style home. Parker, who had accompanied Morris several times to the property and had learned to associate it with extraordinarily delicious bacon, began making pig-like grunts as he realized where he was.
“Why’s our little guy getting so excited?” Natalie asked.
“I’ll give you one guess what he was given the last two times I brought him here.”
“B-a-c-o-n,” she said.
“Correct.”
Morris parked behind a long line of other cars and made sure to keep a tight grip on Parker’s leash when he opened the door, otherwise the dog would’ve raced out of the car in pursuit of more of that sublime bacon. Parker was a loyal dog, but bacon was his one weakness. As they made their way to the front door, Parker strained against his leash as he tried to bull his way forward.
“Somebody’s overly excited,” Natalie observed.
Morris grunted back his acknowledgement.
A waiter in black tie met them at the door with a tray of blue-colored cocktails. Morris knew Stonehedge well enough to know that the drinks would be tasty, so he took one and suggested Natalie do the same. He was right. It was a concoction of blueberries, muddled mint, rum, lime juice, and honey. Natalie also took a sip and concurred that it was delicious.
The waiter informed them that the dinner was being held by Stonehedge’s pool in back. He glanced reproachfully at Parker, most likely wondering whether he should allow a dog into Stonehedge’s home, but held back any comment and instead proceeded to escort them through the house.
“Nice,” Natalie remarked as they went from room to room. “Interesting to see how Los Angeles’s royalty lives.” As they walked through Stonehedge’s designer kitchen, she looked around in awe and commented, “I feel like I’m in an episode of that old show Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”
Morris was too busy keeping Parker in check to respond.
The dinner party out back wasn’t quite the small, intimate affair Stonehedge had hinted at. There were approximately eighty people milling about, and a half dozen or so waiters and waitresses walking through the crowd with trays of drinks and food. Morris spotted The Carver’s director and several of the actors from the film, and then heard his name. He looked over to see Stonehedge on the other side of the pool beaming at him, the actress Brie Evans by his side. Stonehedge signaled for Morris to join them.
“Our host,” Morris said, nodding toward Stonehedge.
“He certainly knows how to throw a shindig,” Natalie acknowledged.
It took some time to work their way through the crowd since one of The Carver’s producers stopped Morris to chat with him, and other partygoers wanted to make a fuss over Parker. If there wasn’t so much food around, the dog might’ve been spoiled by the attention, but as it was he hardly noticed it. When they finally reached Stonehedge, Morris introduced Natalie to the actor and his stunningly gorgeous girlfriend.
“At last we meet,” Stonehedge said, smiling good-naturedly.
“About time, huh?” Natalie said.
“I’d say so. I’ve only seen the picture of you Morris keeps in his office, but you’re even more beautiful in person.”
“Aren’t you too kind,” Natalie said, blushing in spite of herself. She was someone comfortable in her own skin, and compliments of any kind usually didn’t faze her, but this was a Hollywood star who had made People’s hundred sexiest list, and whose girlfriend topped that same list! Mostly to change the subject so she wouldn’t blush any further, she said, “Movies like The Carver aren’t necessarily my cup of tea—”
“Let me guess, they strike too close to home.”
“Exactly. But I thought you stole the movie as The Carver’s final victim.”
Stonehedge’s smile turned enigmatic. “I was supposed to star in it, but I was shot in the leg during a jewelry store robbery. Morris saved my life that day. That was why I played the part in a wheelchair. I still couldn’t walk when they filmed my scenes. It’s also how I got this.”
Stonehedge ran a thumb over the thick scar that was left behind when one of the robbers slashed his cheek open with a gun barrel.
“It gives you a rakish look, luv,” Brie Evans said. “Don’t you agree?” she asked Natalie.
“It certainly gives him character.”
Parker, who’d been standing impatiently, had had enough. With his tail wagging a slow beat, he let out a bark, which was unusual for him, and jumped on Stonehedge so that his front paws leaned against the actor’s thighs.
“I haven’t forgotten about you,” Stonehedge told the bull terrier as he rubbed Parker vigorously behind his ears. Then to Natalie: “This little brute was also responsible for saving my life that day.”
Natalie was well aware of the story, and simply nodded.
Stonehedge caught the eye of a waitress he was searching for and signaled for her to come over. “I ordered this specifically for Parker. Wood-grilled lobster wrapped in bacon.”
The mention of bacon elicited excited grunts from the dog.
“And of course, you used the world’s best bacon,” Morris said, using Stonehedge’s own words to describe the specialty bacon the actor bought from a small butcher shop in Venice.
“Of course.”
The waitress had made her way over and tried unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness about being near Stonehedge and Evans.
“Don’t give him too many,” Natalie said. “He’ll burst.”
“A couple will be okay,” Morris said, and he tossed Parker one of the appetizers, which he gobbled up and seemed to placate him.
“Can I borrow Morris for a few minutes?” Stonehedge asked. “I’d like to talk shop with him.”
Natalie pursed her lips, obviously curious about what that could be about, but she smiled and told Stonehedge that of course he could borrow her husband. “It will give me a chance to ask Brie where she bought her lovely outfit.”
Morris, with Parker in tow, followed Stonehedge toward the back of his property where they could talk in private. They stopped a few yards from the edge of the cliff overlooking the beach below.
“They’re making a movie about the Malibu Butcher,” Stonehedge said. “Well, really about that whack job who dealt himself into the game—”
“Allen Perlmutter.”
“Yeah. But even though Perlmutter is the focus of the movie, the Malibu Butcher is a major role, and the producers are offering it to me.”
“You’ll finally get to play a serial killer.”
“If I take the part.”
“Are you considering it?”
“I am. The script’s got a lot of craziness in it, but it’s also crazy good. As long as you’re okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were knee-deep in that swamp, after all.”
Stonehedge was right. Morris wasn’t thrilled to hear that a movie was being made about that Malibu Butcher psycho, or really three psychos if you included Perlmutter and Sheila Proops, but he had known from the beginning it was inevitable that Hollywood would want to do something with it.
“Someone’s going to take the part,” Morris said, shaking his head. A harsh chuckle escaped from his lips. “Very meta of them wanting you to play the Butcher since you were one of his intended victims.”
“Yeah, but that’s one of the reasons they want me.
Having me play him would be a wet dream for their publicist.”
“No doubt. You know that at least half the witnesses we talked to thought he looked like you?”
“I read about that,” Stonehedge admitted. “I don’t know. From pictures I saw of him, I don’t see the resemblance.”
“That’s only because the photos they ran in the papers were taken after Perlmutter mutilated him.” Morris’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “What’s my character’s name in the movie?”
“Mort Slate.”
“I guess that’s somewhat imaginative. How much is it like me?”
“Surprisingly close. Last I heard they’re talking to Woody Harrelson to play your character. As far as I’m concerned, that would be pitch-perfect casting.”
Morris Brick was under no illusions about his physical appearance, and how mismatched he and Natalie were—Nat being a slender, dark-haired beauty, while he was at best comical looking. He also knew that with his short, compact body, spindly legs, big ears, thick, long nose, and thinning hair he proved the old adage of a dog owner resembling his pet. Even if they dyed Woody Harrelson’s hair dark brown, the only way the actor would resemble Morris would be if someone squinted extra hard. And even then that person would need poor eyesight. But he chose not to argue the matter.
“You’ve got my blessing,” Morris said. “Mazel tov.”
“Thanks, Morris. I appreciate it. Do you want to consult on the film? Nobody knows the real story better than you, at least nobody alive—”
“Other than Sheila Proops.”
“Maybe, but they’d have to find her first. What do you say? I could make it a condition on my taking the role, but I’m sure they’d be on board regardless.”
Movie consulting jobs were good money, but Morris wanted to change MBI’s image from a firm that tracked down perverse serial killers to one that handled more staid corporate work.
“Let me think about it,” Morris said.
Parker, who’d been quiet up until then, let out a couple of impatient grunts.
“Somebody wants to get back to the food,” Stonehedge observed.
The three of them returned to the party.
Chapter 6
Morris reached blindly to turn off the clock radio, then collapsed back onto the bed. His mouth and throat tasted as if he had gargled with sawdust, and his head throbbed as if it were being squeezed in a vise. Too many of those blueberry mojitos, he thought. Too much rich food also. But damn, those charbroiled oysters were good!
He lay on his back, listening to Natalie’s rhythmic breathing as she continued to sleep, and then struggled to open his eyes against the morning light. When he heard a rustling noise from the hallway, followed by a soft whimper, he remembered that because Nat didn’t have to be in her office until eleven, he had decided he’d leave later himself, and so had set the alarm for eight instead of the usual six a.m. If he had planned things better he would’ve arranged for Parker’s twenty-four-year-old occasional dog walker, Kat McKinty, to have shown up earlier that morning. But he hadn’t, so he had better get out of bed pronto to take Parker outside.
Morris tried to be quiet so he wouldn’t wake Natalie as he stumbled out of bed and slipped on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. He grabbed his cell phone and keys, and when he opened the bedroom door he fought to keep Parker from charging into the room. The dog let out an impatient yelp and jumped up and tried to lick him in the face.
“I know, buddy, I’m late this morning. No excuses. Let’s get you outside.”
The word outside elicited several excited grunts from the bull terrier, who proceeded to race down the stairs. Morris badly wanted coffee right then, but that would have to wait. He made a quick pit stop for himself, then continued on to the front door where he found Parker waiting with his leash in his mouth. This was their morning ritual: a tug-of-war before Parker would let go. This time Parker gave up the leash right away.
They were a block away from home before Morris turned on his cell phone. When he checked the text messages, a coolness filled his head as he saw that there was a long string of them from Doug Gilman at the mayor’s office. The first message had been sent an hour ago, and read “Call me right away. It’s important.” The next three were similar, except that “important” had become “critical.” Before Morris could read any more of them, his phone rang. The caller ID showed Los Angeles Mayor’s Office.
This had to be about a horrific murder. That was the only reason Gilman would be this anxious to get ahold of him. Morris considered not answering the call and simply sending Gilman a text reminding him that MBI was no longer taking on homicide investigations. Instead, though, Morris tapped on the answer button. Before he could say anything more than, “I’m sorry, Doug—”, the mayor’s deputy assistant interrupted him, asking if Morris had seen his text messages.
“I was just going through them when you called.”
“You haven’t seen my last text?”
“No, not yet.”
“Before you say another word, take a look at it.”
The world around him grew uncomfortably quiet as Morris scrolled through the messages. He stopped walking and ignored Parker’s impatient tugging on the leash as he found the message that read: this is what was found pinned to the victim. A photo attached to the message showed a business card dotted with two drops of blood. The card read: To Morris Brick: I’m just beginning—R. G. Berg, Serial Killer Extraordinaire.
“You said there was a victim?” Morris asked, his voice sounding tinny and unnatural to his own ears.
“Half of one, anyways.”
Gilman gave Morris the details he had, and Morris agreed to meet him where they had found the victim. Or at least where they had found a part of the victim.
Chapter 7
Charlie Bogle handed Mark Sangonese, Karl Crawford’s boss at Samson Oil & Gas, a paper bag holding a large coffee and a cinnamon roll, both of which Bogle had bought at a local bakery ten minutes earlier after calling Sangonese to ask what he would like. Sangonese grunted out his thanks. He showed a guilty smile as he said, “If my wife knew I was eating this, she’d kill me.”
Sangonese was a chunk of a man in his late fifties with iron-gray hair that had been cut short so that it resembled a bristle brush. Bogle pulled a chair up to Sangonese’s cluttered desk and took a coffee and a blueberry muffin for himself from a second bag.
“What do you think happened to Karl Crawford?” Bogle asked.
Sangonese’s smile fell flat from his face. “No idea,” he said.
“Did his disappearing surprise you?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Karl had been a model employee. In all the time he worked here, I don’t think he called in sick even once.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not well,” Sangonese admitted with a shrug. “Karl worked exclusively in the field servicing wells. I’d see him in the office every blue moon, not much outside the office, and he wasn’t a talkative type.”
“So you don’t know whether he held extremist views?”
Sangonese looked surprised by the question. “You suspect he did?”
“No. I’m only trying to figure out what happened to him. If he was a survivalist or white nationalist or something along those lines, it would give me a few ideas of where to start looking for him.”
“I never heard anyone mention something like that about Karl,” Sangonese muttered. “Never heard that about anyone working here.”
Bogle took another bite of his muffin and chewed it before sipping more coffee. Sangonese fidgeted in his chair, but that was because of the tone of the questioning, not because he was lying. At least Bogle was pretty sure of that.
“Anyone here he might’ve confided in if he was having marital or financial problems?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” Sangonese said, frowning. “Fie
ld maintenance technicians, like Karl, might come into the office half a dozen times a year. It’s a good job if you like solitude, but it’s not one that encourages camaraderie.”
“Would Crawford always be alone at these wells?”
“Usually. I’m on the road one week every month doing spot checks, but I’ve got seven other field service technicians, so every month I might’ve been at two of the wells Karl was servicing. During those times Karl and I wouldn’t be gabbing all that much.”
Bogle consulted his notes before remarking that the police report stated that Crawford went to the first well he was scheduled to service that day, but didn’t show up at the second.
“That’s not a hundred percent right,” Sangonese said. He finished the last bite of cinnamon bun and used the paper bag to wipe his hands clean, then crumpled and tossed the bag into a trash can. “Karl could’ve shown up at the second well. All I know for a fact is he didn’t service the well.”
“What you really know is that he didn’t sign the log,” Bogle said.
“No, I know more than that. If he had opened the well’s casing, it would’ve sent our computer tracking system a signal. That didn’t happen. So Karl could’ve shown up there, but something might’ve happened to him before he could do any work.”
That perked Bogle’s interest. “What about security video?”
Sangonese said, “We don’t outfit wells with cameras. There hasn’t been a need. If the wells are tampered with, we’ll get a signal and we then send out a security team.”
“How often does that happen?”
“It hasn’t yet.”
Bogle sighed as he considered all this. It would’ve been helpful if the wells had security cameras. He asked, “Who knew Crawford’s schedule that day?”
“I did. My secretary. I can’t say about anyone else.”
“How do you decide which wells get serviced?”
“A combination of routine scheduling and remote monitoring.” Sangonese cleared his throat and added, “Over the last six months we’ve been upgrading our wells with more sophisticated software to better detect when maintenance is needed.”
