Malicious

by Jacob Stone

  “First step, let’s get her recent credit card charges,” he said.

  Walsh, who was on her cell phone, told him it was being done.

  Chapter 30

  “I was invited to steal the Tahoe,” Clark Clarke said.

  “Is that really your name?” Bogle asked.

  The car thief rolled his eyes. “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it matters. I paid you two hundred dollars. I want to know what you’re telling me is on the level.”

  “Assume it is.”

  Bogle didn’t like the answer, but he let it drop. He was sitting with the car thief, who claimed his name was Clark Clarke, in a booth at a trendy bar in downtown Glendale. It seemed an unlikely spot to meet a car thief, but it was where Clarke wanted to meet. Then again, the guy looked more like a college student than any car thief he’d ever known. Reed thin, shoulder-length curly hair, scruffy beard, T-shirt, jeans, boots, no visible tattoos.

  “How’d you get invited?” Bogle asked.

  “A website. Think of it as a clearing house for people who want their cars stolen for insurance purposes. Let’s say you want your car to disappear. You give the location of when and where the car will be left, and where you’re hiding the key. People like me will take the car, with the agreement that we make it vanish within twenty-four hours.”

  “Why aren’t the police monitoring this site?” Bogle asked, dubiously.

  Clarke smiled at Bogle as if he were some old dude who was too unhip to know anything. That smile made Bogle want to knock the guy’s teeth out.

  “I’m sure they would if they knew about it. But the site is in a dark, secretive part of the web, and only people like me are invited.”

  “You’re saying the Tahoe was advertised on this dark, secretive website?” Bogle said, his voice brusque as he challenged the young car thief.

  “Exactly.”

  “What day was that?”

  “November seventeenth.”

  That was the day Karl Crawford had gone missing. His wife didn’t call the police until the next morning, and they didn’t try locating Crawford’s car until later that day. Bogle started taking Clark Clarke more seriously.

  “What time did the Tahoe show up on this top-secret website?”

  Clarke made a “who knows” gesture with his hands. “I can’t tell you when it was first listed, but I noticed it around eight that night.”

  “You reserved it?”

  “That’s not how it works. Whoever gets there first, gets the car.”

  “And you were first?”

  “I was. The Tahoe was left in an alley in Long Beach. That’s a long hike for me, but it would make a nice score. Around ten I made the trip, and the Tahoe was where it was supposed to be, the key also.”

  “What happened next?”

  All at once Clarke seemed unsure about what to do with his hands, and he started rolling an empty beer bottle between them. His gaze shifted from Bogle to the bottle.

  “I drove the Tahoe to a garage I use, stripped it down, and had the body carted off for scrap metal. I was done by three in the morning.”

  “What about the GPS recovery device?”

  Clarke made a face as if Bogle was asking something too trivial to bother answering. “I found it in the dashboard when I tore it apart. I smashed it to pieces with a hammer.”

  Bogle sat silently for a ten-count as he watched the young car thief rolling the empty bottle between his hands. Something didn’t add up.

  “Something doesn’t add up,” Bogle said. “Why’d you agree to tell me this for two hundred dollars?”

  Clarke stopped the bottle rolling. His expression weakened, and his gaze drifted back to meet Bogle’s eyes.

  “There was something wrong about the Tahoe that’s been bothering me,” he said. “The alley where it was left was dark, and a blanket had been draped over the driver’s seat, so I didn’t know any of this until I got the Tahoe back to the garage.” His voice lowered as he said, “There was a bullet hole in the driver’s side window.”

  “You’re sure it was a bullet hole?”

  “I’m pretty sure. Yeah. There were no spider web cracks, like if a rock had hit it.”

  “Where was it on the window?”

  “Like it would’ve hit me here if I was sitting in the driver’s seat.”

  Clarke tapped above his eye.

  “What was under the blanket?”

  Clarke’s expression weakened more. “The seat was sticky with blood.”

  “You didn’t think of calling the police?”

  “Come on, man,” he said. “In my line of work? And what would I have told them so they’d believe all I did was steal it for what I thought was an insurance scam? No, man, once I took the SUV I had to get rid of it. I couldn’t even dump it if I wanted to. I didn’t wear gloves that night, and my fingerprints were all over it. But it’s been bothering me. That’s why I agreed to tell you about it.”

  Bogle mostly believed him. He was also convinced Karl Crawford was shot once in the face on November 17 as he sat in his Chevy Tahoe, and that his killer used this dark, secretive website to make Crawford’s SUV disappear.

  “I need the website address,” Bogle said.

  “You’re not getting it from me, but it wouldn’t help you if you did. That part of the web doesn’t keep traces of anything. That’s why people like me use it.”

  He pushed himself out of the booth. He was taller than he had looked sitting down, at least six and a half feet. With his body fully unwound, he also appeared lankier than thin. He wasn’t a lightweight, that was for sure, but Bogle had no doubt he could overpower him if needed.

  “I could hold you until the police came,” Bogle said.

  The car thief appraised Bogle. “I’m sure you could. My story would be I was telling you a tall tale so I could rip you off for two bills. You’re not getting anything more from me, because there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

  Bogle didn’t like it, but he accepted it. Besides, a deal was a deal.

  “Your name’s not really Clark Clarke,” he said stubbornly.

  The car thief smiled fully, revealing a mouth that seemed to have too many teeth crammed into it. “No, it’s not. But everything else I’ve said has been the truth.”

  Bogle let the car thief, whatever his name was, walk out of the place.

  Chapter 31

  “Sean Doyle?”

  The bartender, who looked a lot like Tom Selleck from the old Magnum, P.I. show, had just started his shift. He looked over at Walsh and the badge she was showing him, and a wolfish grin spread over his face. When he noticed Morris next to her, his grin dimmed a bit.

  “That’s my name,” he said. “What have I done to have such a lovely member of Los Angeles’s finest looking for me?”

  “Nothing you’ve done. We just have some questions.”

  Parker let out a grunt, impatient that there was food around he wasn’t mooching. Doyle got up on his toes so he could look over the bar, and he noticed the bull terrier for the first time.

  “You can’t bring a dog in here,” he said.

  “He’s only half dog,” Morris said. “Other half, garbage disposal.”

  “Same rule.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Doyle shrugged. Whatever.

  “You were working here at nine twenty-three last night,” Walsh said, getting his attention back to her.

  “That’s right,” he acknowledged. “I worked until one.” He flashed her another grin, this one somewhere between naughty and an out-and-out leer. “I’m here again until one tonight, in case you’d like to stop by at that time and question me privately. The rest of the night if you want.”

  “Can it. It’s been a long day.”

  If his feelings were hurt, he didn’
t show it. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said, still grinning, now more with good humor than lust.

  “Another time maybe.”

  “Any time you’d like.” His lips pursed into a more thoughtful look. “Nine twenty-three. That’s an awfully specific time. What was happening then?”

  “Faye Riverstone was paying her bill with a credit card. Did you see her with anyone?”

  Doyle’s grin disappeared, his expression becoming something somber. “We’re not supposed to talk about our clientele,” he said in a softer, more serious voice. “It’s a privacy matter. Celebrities come here because they know we won’t talk about them.”

  Morris placed on the bar both sketches they had of the killer. “This time you can make an exception,” he said. “Did you see this man with her?”

  Doyle was staring at Morris as if he thought he knew him. All at once it occurred to him from where. “I thought you looked familiar,” he said with another grin. “I saw you just this morning on TV.” He remembered then what the show had been about, and his face fell flat. “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “Take a look at these sketches,” Morris said.

  Doyle did as he was asked. “Ms. Riverstone met someone here,” he said, his voice brittle. “I try not to pay attention. That’s one of the rules here. But, yeah, Ms. Riverstone came in alone. I think around seven-thirty, and took a seat over there.” He pointed at one of the barstools. “I barely had time to make her a drink when she was leaving for that table over there, meeting up with her date.” He nodded toward a table in the bar area where the lighting was kept dim for mood and privacy. Then he was back to studying the two sketches. “I think that could be him,” he murmured, pointing to the sketch of the killer with a blond ponytail and bushy mustache. “I never got a good look at him, and Ms. Riverstone was the one who kept coming back to the bar to buy drinks. A dear woman. She comes here frequently. Jesus, I hope nothing has happened to her.”

  “He left with her?” Morris asked.

  “I think so.” His eyes took on a distant look as he gave the matter more thought, and then he told Morris he was sure of it.

  “Did Ms. Riverstone say anything to you about him?” Walsh asked.

  “No, but she seemed in good spirits. I had the sense that she was hitting it off with him.”

  Morris asked, “Did you see the guy here before last night?”

  Doyle looked back at the sketches, worry at that moment putting a dent in his good looks.

  “They’re both the same guy, right?” he said. “Maybe he came in another night wearing a different disguise. I don’t know. If he did come in, I don’t remember it, or whether he was with Ms. Riverstone. But I don’t work Sundays or Mondays. He might’ve been in one of those nights.”

  Walsh handed Doyle a card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  He studied the card, an awkward smile on his lips. “I promise I’ll do that,” he said. He hemmed and hawed for a moment, then added, “I know what you’re working on is serious, and I don’t want to appear inappropriate saying this, but I don’t want you thinking I hit on every lovely lady that comes in here. Almost never happens. But I felt a spark when I saw you. Maybe when you finish this business, you come back here, and I’ll buy you a drink or two, and we can chat?”

  “There’s a chance,” Walsh said.

  As they walked away from the bar to talk more with the manager, Morris commented that the bartender had fed her a well-practiced line of BS.

  “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I just wanted to point it out.”

  “Noted.”

  Morris didn’t bother pointing out what was even more obvious: that the killer had Faye Riverstone buy the drinks so the bartender wouldn’t get a close-up look of him.

  The bar manager gave them the name and contact information for the bartender who had filled in the last several Sundays and Mondays for Doyle. Even with that information, it took them two hours to track down the part-time bartender. When they did, she told them she remembered a dude approaching Faye Riverstone at the bar, and that the guy smooth-talked her into moving to one of the tables. “He had her laughing within minutes, like he knew exactly what buttons to push.”

  “Almost as if he had studied up on her?” Morris asked.

  “That thought had crossed my mind. The guy came off like a helpless lamb, but I saw him for what he was. A wolf. I almost warned Ms. Riverstone about him, and if she had tried leaving with him, I just might’ve.”

  Morris showed her the two sketches, and she pointed to the one of the killer wearing a blond wig and bushy mustache.

  “That’s him,” she said, “I’m sure of it.”

  “Take a good look at the sketch. Any changes you’d make to it?”

  She did as Morris asked, and after a minute of concentrated effort, she told him no. “This was five days ago, and I only saw him sitting down, and I tried not to stare or eavesdrop. But I think that’s a good likeness. I hope Ms. Riverstone is okay.”

  She said the last part as if she didn’t think there was any chance of it being true.

  Morris didn’t say anything comforting in response, such as that he was sure the actress would be fine. He wasn’t up to lying to her. Instead he thanked her for her help, and watched as Walsh handed her a business card and asked her to call if she thought of anything else. Morris knew there was nothing else the part-time bartender could tell them that could help Faye Riverstone. But then again, so did Walsh.

  Chapter 32

  Philip Stonehedge and Brie Evans had reached a rarified place in their budding relationship where they could sit quietly together and feel at ease, and that was what they were doing as they sat on the patio of one of Malibu’s trendiest restaurants and enjoyed the view of the ocean, their cocktails, and each other’s company. Their solitude was broken by Stonehedge’s cell phone buzzing. He gave it a cursory look with the intention of dismissing the call unless it was from his agent. It wasn’t his agent, but when he saw who it was, he answered immediately. All of his cheerfulness bled out within seconds. It was a quick one-sided conversation. Stonehedge didn’t speak until the end.

  “Morris, I can’t thank you enough for this,” Stonehedge said, his voice unusually somber. He put the phone away and told Brie that the same maniac who had killed Heather Brandley also had killed Drea Kane and abducted Faye Riverstone.

  Brie blinked several times as she stared at Stonehedge, her frozen expression looking like a cross between a sick smile and being gobsmacked.

  “If you’re trying to be funny, you’re doing an awful job of it,” she said.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. That was Morris Brick calling.” Stonehedge ran his fingers through his hair. A nervous gesture. “The police will be having a press conference later tonight about Drea and Faye, but he wanted to warn me that the killer seems to be targeting blond actresses who look like you.”

  Simultaneously, Brie’s eyes opened wide, her skin color dropped a shade, her mouth hung open, and she brought her hand to her mouth so that the knuckle on her index finger touched her bottom lip.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  Anyone witnessing her would’ve thought she was experiencing shock and dismay, and she was to a degree, but her reaction was also theatrical. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was feeling. The idea of this madman targeting her seemed too abstract for her to worry about, but she had mixed emotions hearing about Drea and Faye. She had worked with both of them, and had considered Drea a cold fish who thought way too highly of herself. She was also Brie’s fiercest rival and at least a half dozen times over the years had won roles that Brie badly wanted. There was professional jealousy also with Faye, but far more on Faye’s part than her own. A bit flighty, and her squint/pouty act had gotten old. After a few moments of reflection, Brie decided that she genuinely felt an affection for Faye, and soon fou
nd herself worrying about the actress’s safety.

  Philip, though, was more of an open book with his emotions, and he didn’t have a clue about these conflicting feelings Brie was undergoing, and that was one of the things she found so endearing about him.

  “It’s terrible, I know,” Stonehedge said, his face drawn. He reached for her hand and covered it with his own. She bit down on her bottom lip as if she were struggling to keep from crying. Maybe she was. It was terrible what happened, but she also wouldn’t be losing any more roles to Drea Kane.

  “Poor Drea. Poor dear Faye,” Brie said, her mouth crumbling. She wasn’t faking this time, at least not exactly. Right then she was racked with guilt for how she had felt moments earlier hearing that Drea had been murdered by a madman.

  “Fly to Seattle with me tonight,” Stonehedge suggested.

  “I can’t. My publicist will kill me if I’m not in LA tomorrow morning.”

  “This bloodthirsty lunatic might kill you if you stay in town.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Stonehedge made up his mind. “I’m cancelling my trip,” he said, his jaw set. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

  Philip Stonehedge’s hand still covered her own. Brie brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. This time there was no overdramatization of the emotion flooding her eyes. What was there was very real, and it made Stonehedge blush.

  Get a room already, the killer thought as he watched this from two tables away. He had disguised himself earlier with a prosthetic nose and fake teeth that changed the shape of his mouth and even his jawline. He was also wearing a long-sleeve dark olive polo shirt, sandstone-colored khakis, loafers, dark sunglasses, and a neatly trimmed sandy-brown-colored wig. All quite preppy. Nobody would recognize him from either of the police sketches they had showed on TV.