by Jacob Stone
Pettibone knew that was just wishful thinking. There wasn’t much chance Janice and his kids would get as much as a scratch when those wells blew up. Reuben claimed a lot of people in Los Angeles were going to die when it happened, but Pettibone wasn’t convinced. More likely, not much more was going to happen other than starting dozens of raging well fires and gushing tons of black smoke into the atmosphere. Not that that was anything to sneer at. It was going to be costly to Samson Oil & Gas, and it might even put them out of business. Pettibone liked the idea of that. He felt no loyalty at all toward his employer. Why should he? They’d always treated him shabbily, giving him insulting raises over the years, some years stiffing him altogether.
Pettibone’s eyes darkened as he took another long pull on his beer, draining it. He reached for another beer and cracked it open using the edge of the table. It was more than that they had always treated him poorly. Almost from the first day Sangonese was made his boss, the fat turd had had it in for him. Pettibone also knew a little over four months ago Sangonese had planned to fire him. The other maintenance techs thought it was only a rumor that one of them was about to be cut, but Pettibone knew better. He had always been good with a lock pick, and it wasn’t hard for him late one night to break into Sangonese’s secretary’s desk. It didn’t take long after that to find the evidence he was looking for: a memo giving Sangonese permission to fire his lowest-performing maintenance tech, which according to the memo was him. He had called Reuben after that to tell him why he wasn’t going to be able to plant bombs for him like they had arranged. Reuben asked for the name of the top-performing maintenance tech, which was Karl Crawford, and promised Pettibone he’d take care of it, which he must’ve done since Crawford disappeared three days later. But that was then. Pettibone knew their new initiative of installing advanced diagnostic boards at each well was so they could fire most of their maintenance technicians, and Sangonese would make sure he’d be the first to go. Another three months tops, and he’d be out of a job, thrown away like so much used garbage. At least that’s what would’ve happened if he hadn’t met Reuben.
Pettibone doubted Reuben was his real name. The way the guy had smirked when he had introduced himself to Pettibone, it seemed more like an inside joke. The guy had also seemed unstable, but Pettibone didn’t much care. The money he was being paid to plant those bombs would allow him to escape his indentured servitude. Twenty-five grand had already been transferred to an offshore account, and a final payment of fifty grand was scheduled to be made Saturday. It wasn’t a lot of money—not as much as Pettibone would’ve liked, but it would do. He had spent months working out the numbers in his head, and the seventy-five grand, plus another twenty-two he was able to scrape together with loans and selling his car, should be enough for him to live out his days drinking whiskey and cold beer, eating barbecued pork, and screwing young Vietnamese whores.
Pettibone finished the lasagna, then the last of the meatballs, and finally what was left of the sausage. He finished off his second beer, and unleashed a hellacious belch. A shame Janice wasn’t there to appreciate it. That uptight prude would’ve been giving him an earful. He still had the chocolate cake, but decided to save it for later. He grabbed a fresh bottle of Heineken, cracked it open, got up from the small card table he had set up next to the bare-bones galley kitchen, and moved all of four feet so he could plop down on the ratty sofa he had picked up off the street when he first moved in.
What a way to live, he grumbled to himself. Won’t be much longer. Then I’ll be living the way a man’s supposed to when he’s not carrying an ungrateful harpy and three snot-nosed brats on his back.
He gave a quick look at his surroundings, and first felt only disgust, and then the slow burn of anger. He still had six bombs left to plant before he’d be done, and he thought about using one of them to blow up the apartment building. He was sure he’d be able to figure out how to do that. He could replace the trigger Reuben was using with a timer, and he could fill up his apartment with enough accelerant so the whole building would burn to ashes. Somehow that seemed fitting. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea, especially the idea of burning alive the inconsiderate jerks who lived above him. Always making a racket when he was trying to sleep.
Pettibone turned on the TV. He didn’t pay attention to it for several minutes as he found himself thinking more seriously about rigging up one of the bombs. It was no longer just a fanciful thought, but something that made too much sense not to do. If the building burned to the ground, the police would assume that he died in the fire also, and there’d be no reason for anyone to look for him in Asia or anywhere else. He could even leave a dead body in the apartment just to make sure they came to the obvious conclusion that one of his bombs went off unexpectedly.
An image flickering on the TV caught his attention. He stared blankly at the two sketches they were showing—one of a man with a bushy mustache and long blond hair tied up in a ponytail, the other presumably of the same man, except he was bald and clean-shaven, and looked a bit like a turtle out of its shell. Pettibone whistled to himself as he realized why the sketches looked familiar. Because they were both of Reuben. When that oddball had sidled up to him in a dive bar on Beach Boulevard five months ago, he didn’t have blond hair, and he wasn’t bald either. He had short, brown hair, wore glasses, and had a goatee. But Pettibone was sure those police sketches were of Reuben. He paid rapt attention to the rest of the news story, and learned that the man in the sketches was wanted for the murder of the actress Heather Brandley, a doorman working in Brandley’s condo building, and an unidentified woman. They didn’t say much about the murders other than Brandley’s body was found in that new wax museum on Sunset Boulevard and the woman’s body was found in a downtown LA clothing store. Pettibone, though, could read enough between the lines to know that both deaths had been grisly.
Pettibone soon found himself wondering if the police were offering a reward, and if they were, whether it would be more than the fifty grand Reuben still owed him.
He badly wanted to know that.
Chapter 26
Morris called Natalie on his way home to see if he should pick up dinner. “I could stop off at Seven Star,” he suggested.
“Let me guess, you’ve got a craving for kung pao chicken and Peking ravioli,” Natalie said in an amused voice.
“Well, yeah, but I’d also be picking up your favorite, scallops in black pepper sauce.”
“No need, hon. I’ve got dinner covered. This is a nice surprise, though. I didn’t think you’d be making an appearance until at least midnight.”
“The better part of valor is recognizing when it’s time to give up,” Morris said.
“A tough day?”
“Putting it mildly. Have you watched the news yet?”
“I’ve been avoiding it.”
“Just as well. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
Nine minutes later, Morris pulled into the driveway. When he brought Parker to the front door and the bull terrier began making excited pig grunts, Morris thought that Natalie must’ve seen him drive up and was waiting right behind the door. Except when he opened the door, it wasn’t Natalie but Rachel grinning at him. She dropped to one knee so she could wrestle with Parker.
“This is a nice surprise,” Morris said.
“It shouldn’t be,” Rachel gasped between laughs as she fought to keep an excitable Parker from licking her face. “I told you I might come by for dinner.”
“You did,” Morris acknowledged. “Wow. It seems like a week ago since I saw you earlier today.”
Rachel extricated herself from Parker and gave Morris a kiss on the cheek. Concern wrinkled her brow as she stepped back and appraised her dad. “You look worn out,” she said.
“I am,” Morris admitted. “But it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Rachel scratched Parker behind the ear as th
e dog leaned against her. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study Morris.
“Do I still need to worry about the police alert bracelet you gave me?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Things have only gotten worse. Have you eaten yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay. I’ll explain more after dinner.”
“So you don’t ruin my appetite?” she asked, her eyes like hard slivers of flint as she challenged him.
Morris said, “Uh uh. I know what a tough cookie you are. It’s so I don’t ruin my own.”
Natalie appeared from the hallway, beaming. She handed Morris a glass of beer.
“I thought you could use it,” she said.
“One of the many reasons I married your mom,” Morris told Rachel.
After leaning in and kissing Morris on the lips, Natalie had to contend with Parker, who greeted her every bit as enthusiastically as he did Rachel. When she could, she took hold of Morris by the arm.
“Our lovely daughter has brought us a veritable feast. Dinner awaits.”
She walked arm in arm with Morris while Parker made sure to keep close physical contact with Rachel, his thick, ropy tail wagging at a fast beat. Before they reached the kitchen, Morris sniffed in the air and thought he smelled kung pao chicken.
“Seven Star?” he asked.
“Where else?” Rachel said.
Takeout containers of kung pao chicken, Peking ravioli, scallops in black pepper sauce, pork fried rice, Szechuan string beans, broccoli in garlic sauce, and tofu lo mein lay on the kitchen table.
“Daughter, you know how to make an old man very happy.”
“Old man?” Natalie remarked. “Where’s that coming from? You’re only forty-seven!”
“This day has made me feel old.”
“That’s because you started it hungover.”
“Probably,” Morris agreed.
They sat at the table and dug in, with Morris loading up on the kung pao chicken, Peking ravioli, and pork fried rice, Natalie having a little bit of everything, and Rachel sticking with the vegetarian dishes. Parker, who was doing some serious mooching, got handouts from everyone.
As Morris used chopsticks to snatch his third Peking ravioli, he asked Natalie why the name R. G. Berg sounded so familiar to him. A weariness flashed over his wife’s face, and he realized then how hard she’d been struggling to hide her worry from him.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about any serial killer business during dinner?” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry. That name’s been bugging me all day. I feel like I should know it, but I can’t think from where.”
“Why’s the name important?”
“It’s what the killer is calling himself.”
Natalie gave it some thought. “I can’t remember you ever mentioning anyone named Berg. I don’t know anyone by that name, and none of my patients are named Berg if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
“I have a Professor Anthony Berg in contract law,” Rachel said.
“How old is he?”
“Sixties. African American. Tall. Distinguished looking.”
“Not our man,” Morris said.
Natalie put her knife and fork down. While Morris and Rachel used chopsticks religiously when they ate Chinese food, she had never gotten the hang of it.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“It’s bad,” Morris said. “And it’s going to get worse, especially after tomorrow morning when I shake the hornet’s nest.”
He told them about the three murders without going into any of the gory details regarding what was done to the bodies, and about his planned appearance with Margot Denoir on The Hollywood Peeper.
“We need to rattle him. This maniac is different than your garden-variety serial killer. He’s not driven by compulsion or a deep-seated neurosis or anger to kill. Instead, it’s all ego. He’s trying to impress the world with the way he’s orchestrating these killings. In his warped mind, he’s creating a great piece of art. If I can strike him where it hurts the most, he’ll make a mistake, and we’ll catch him faster than we would otherwise.”
“Before he takes more victims,” Rachel noted.
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“You’re going to be really pissing him off,” Natalie said.
“I know.”
“So we need to hold on to those bracelets,” Rachel said, her voice falling flat.
Morris hated the threat this maniac posed to his wife and daughter. He hated that they were both trying so hard right then to look brave for his sake. He especially hated the helplessness he was feeling. Parker must’ve sensed his discomfort because he jumped up, resting his paws on Morris’s thigh, and let out an agitated grunt. Morris absently offered him what was left of the Peking ravioli he’d been eating, and the king of the moochers seemed almost reluctant to take it.
“Starting tomorrow morning both of you will have police protection until we catch him,” he said. “Twenty-four seven. And we’re going to be catching him. This joker’s not as clever as he thinks he is.”
Natalie asked Rachel, “What classes do you have tomorrow?”
“Only a constitutional law lecture, and I can it watch it online.”
“Good. You’ll stay here with me.” She turned to Morris and said, “For tomorrow anyway we’ll make it easy for the police to protect us. Does that help put your mind at ease?”
Morris was grateful that Natalie didn’t see clients on Fridays, because if she did he doubted she’d be so amenable. Or maybe she would’ve been regardless because of Rachel.
“Somewhat,” Morris admitted.
* * * *
The next morning, Morris was up by six, and ready by seven to head out for his appearance on The Hollywood Peeper. Natalie adjusted his tie and took a step back to give him a more thorough examination.
“Do I pass inspection?” Morris asked with his poker face firmly intact.
Natalie bit her tongue and once again held back a comment on how she wished he had a more stylish suit. Morris owned three suits, all of which he’d bought off the rack twenty-one years ago when he made detective. While snug on him, they still fit, and Natalie knew it was hopeless to get him to replace them. It wasn’t that her husband was being frugal, but that his dad, who had also been an LAPD police officer, had bought three suits off the rack when he made detective, and those were the only suits he owned up until the day he passed away. While Morris never talked much about it, Natalie knew it helped him feel closer to his dad doing the same.
“Barely,” she said. “Fortunately, you’ve got Parker to help distract the TV audience from that threadbare suit you insist on wearing. The little guy is very photogenic.”
“The suit’s fine,” Morris insisted. “And I want Parker staying with you and Rachel.”
“Absolutely not. We’ve got the police protecting us. We’re going to be just fine staying holed up here all day. You’re the one who this serial killer has a serious grudge against—”
“According to the FBI profiler.”
“Do you disagree with her?”
Morris made a face as he shook his head.
“Not only does this person have it in for you, but in a little over an hour you’re going to be attacking him at his core. So that’s why you’re going to take Parker. Rachel and I will have the police, you’re going to have this ferocious little guy.”
“Ferocious? He’s a marshmallow!”
Parker, who was lying on the floor nearby, sensed he had been maligned and let out an insulted grunt.
“Not when you’re being attacked he isn’t.”
Morris walked over to the front window and moved the blinds aside. An unmarked police car was parked across the street half a block away and two plainclothes officers were sitting inside. Just as Natali
e knew she had lost the battle long ago regarding him replacing his suits, Morris accepted he had lost this battle.
“I’ll take Parker,” he conceded.
The bull terrier, almost as if on command, pushed himself to his feet, stretched, yawned, and walked briskly over to Morris. Natalie joined them at the front door so she could kiss her husband goodbye. Her hand touched his cheek and lingered there.
“Be careful with this killer. He has nothing but ill intent toward you.”
“I will. I promise.”
“I get the sense that he’s out to manipulate you. It’s like he’s trying to move you around as if you’re a piece on a chessboard.”
Morris agreed with her, although he knew this was far more than a game to the killer. He made a quick stop across the street with Parker in tow so he could have a word with the two officers in the unmarked car, letting them know if they needed coffee or a bathroom break to knock on the door, and then he was heading to his TV appearance on The Hollywood Peeper.
Chapter 27
Brad Pettibone thought there were pay phones at the bus station, and it turned out he was right. His problem as he stood in front of one of them with a pocketful of change was that they only took credit cards. He couldn’t very well use one of those to anonymously call the number for that ex-cop who was in charge of Heather Brandley’s murder investigation. If he did, they’d be able to figure out who was calling.
