Malicious

by Jacob Stone

  Sighing, he said, “My pop was disappointed that I quit the game. My coach and others thought I had a chance to play pro ball, but my pop was a police detective, and I always had it in my head I’d be one also. So I majored in behavioral science in college with the expectation I’d join the force after graduating. That’s how I met Nat. I was a senior when she was a freshman.”

  “Rachel didn’t tell me any of this.”

  Morris said, “There’s no reason she should’ve. But I have my reason. I kept the bat I used in the state championship game. I thought if I had a son I’d teach him how to play ball with it, and pass it along to him. But when we had Rachel, I found another use for the bat. I showed it to every boy she dated in high school, and I promised them I’d break their legs if they ever did anything to hurt or disrespect my little girl. I meant it, too. I stopped doing this when she got into college. Rachel’s a tough cookie, as you know, and she’d be furious with me if she caught me doing that again. Still I wish I had warned the last guy she dated, because if I had, I would’ve used the bat on him regardless of the consequences.”

  Gilman met Morris’s gaze. “I really like Rachel,” he said. “Morris, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Good.” Morris clapped Gilman on the shoulder. “Let’s grab some cocktail shrimp before Polk finishes them off.”

  Don’t miss the next page-turning

  Morris Brick thriller by Jacob Stone

  CRUEL

  Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

  CRUEL by Jacob Stone

  Prologue

  Downtown Los Angeles alley, 2:18 a.m.

  The rat grew frantic in its efforts to escape the trap, its front claws a blur as they scratched against the wire mesh. This one was older than the juveniles already collected, and showed the scars of a lifetime spent skulking through Los Angeles alleyways and sewers. Half of one ear had been torn off, its grayish-black fur was matted, and a dozen wounds had scabbed over. While the rat was larger than the others, it was still emaciated enough to be able to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter. Rats like this one were crucial for what was coming.

  The newspaper stories from 2001 didn’t mention rats; neither did the ones from 1984. That had to be because the reporters weren’t told about them, or really about any of the specifics. In 1984 the newspaper and TV reporters described the murders only as depraved and sickening. A police officer must have given them that description, and someone with a touch of poetry in his soul gave the killer the name the Nightmare Man. That name stuck—both in 1984 and in 2001—but the name didn’t fully do the killer justice. While horrific, monstrous things were done to the victims, they were things that could have only come from the nightmares of a lunatic.

  Just as a variety of cicadas awaken every seventeen years, so did the Nightmare Man. October 2nd would mark the seventeen-year anniversary of the start of the last killing spree, and new victims had already been chosen. They were both the least and most fortunate people alive. They would be dying the worst deaths imaginable, but they would also have a kind of immortality, their fates forever entwined with that of the Nightmare Man. Because of that, they would never be forgotten.

  The cage was picked up. The rat inside backed up and got on its hind legs, its small black eyes shining with malevolence as it bared its teeth. It was certainly an ugly thing, and would do nicely for what was needed.

  A homeless woman lay curled in a fetal position as she slept next to a Dumpster. She stirred as the cage holding the rat was carried past her. Her blood-rimmed eyes cracked open, her round, craggy face turning toward the soft padding of footsteps. In a raspy croak that sounded as if her throat had been scraped raw with sandpaper, she asked for money. Even from several feet away, the sour smell of cheap gin on her breath assaulted the senses.

  A decision now had to be made: whether to kill the old woman or ignore her. A moment of reflection revealed a third option—simply hand the homeless woman a twenty-dollar bill, and that was what was done. The woman mumbled something unintelligible as she accepted the money. She turned away as she hid the bill within one of her layers of clothing, and then she presumably fell back to sleep.

  That was how it needed to be. It wasn’t time yet for the Nightmare Man to awaken from his slumber. October 2nd was still a full ten days away. That was when the killing would start again. Besides, snuffing out the life of this old woman wasn’t necessary. Her alcohol-addled mind wouldn’t later connect this late night intrusion of her makeshift home with the Nightmare Man’s return.

  But the Nightmare Man was coming.

  And Los Angeles would soon be weeping tears of blood.

  Chapter 1

  Morris Brick had not been to Luzana’s before, and for good reason. The restaurant on North Cahuenga Boulevard had a reputation for putting a serious dent in their customers’ wallets, but even if that wasn’t the case, there was little chance he would’ve been able to get a table there. Luzana’s had become Los Angeles’s most exclusive hotspot. A place for Hollywood royalty, sports celebrities, and the ultra-rich to be seen and noticed. Morris might’ve become a minor celebrity after years of catching depraved serial killers, but that still wouldn’t have bought him a table reservation at Luzana’s, and so it only mildly surprised him when the maître d’hôtel gave him the snootiest look he had ever seen. He was genuinely surprised, however, after the man peered over his stand to see that the pig-like grunt came from Parker, Morris’s all-white bull terrier, that he made a shooing gesture with both hands. That was just plain rude!

  Morris arched an eyebrow and, keeping his voice amicable, asked, “Am I supposed to guess that means you have no available tables? At twenty past two on a Tuesday?”

  If it were possible, the maître d’hôtel would’ve climbed onto a step ladder so he could look further down his nose at Morris. “Apparently,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Morris stood his ground and lazily rubbed his jaw. If he were the vindictive type, he could’ve called in a favor at the mayor’s office and had the place shut down for a kitchen violation—imagined or real, it didn’t matter. After all, six months ago he and his team at Morris Brick Investigations, commonly known as MBI, very likely saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of fellow Angelenos, and at a heavy cost. Charlie Bogle almost died after being shot in the chest, and hadn’t been the same since, even quitting MBI two months ago. Morris himself took shrapnel to the leg from a booby trap, and it was only since last month that he was able to put away his cane. But as tempted as he was to drag the maître d’hôtel out from behind the stand and teach him some manners, he maintained a calm demeanor and told him he was meeting a friend at the restaurant. “Philip Stonehedge. He’s already been seated,” he said.

  The maître d’hôtel gave him an incredulous look. Stonehedge was high up on Hollywood’s A-list, and not only that, he was dating the gorgeous Brie Evans, who sat near the top of the list. But since there was a remote chance Morris was telling the truth, he asked for Morris’s name and made a phone call, keeping his voice low so Morris couldn’t eavesdrop. Shortly afterward a waiter came bustling out of the main dining room and whispered something to the maître d’hôtel, whose attitude quickly changed toward Morris.

  It was almost like a magic wand had been waved—in less time than it took to snap one’s fingers, his contempt transformed to full-blown obsequiousness. He bowed and asked Morris to follow him, and as he led them through the crowded dining room filled with Hollywood royalty and other studio muckety-mucks and to the bustling outdoor patio, Morris resisted the urge to plant a kick onto the man’s well-padded derriere.

  Parker had been behaving himself, but he suddenly grunted excitedly and lurched forward as he strained against his leash. The bull terrier must’ve spotted Stonehedge, who was grinning at them as he watched f
rom his table, the thick, jagged scar running down his cheek giving his grin a sardonic quality. The actor had gotten the scar from being slashed with a gun barrel. This happened after he had arranged with the mayor’s office to tag along with Morris on the Skull Cracker Killer investigation, although it wasn’t SCK who did the slashing but a vicious criminal by the name of Alex Malfi who didn’t appreciate the actor trying to interfere with a Beverly Hills jewelry store robbery. Malfi further showed his displeasure toward Stonehedge by shooting him in the thigh, and the actor would have died if it wasn’t for Morris’s later heroics.

  Stonehedge left the table to tussle with Parker, then shook Morris’s hand, and reached over to bring him in for a hug. The maître d’hôtel stood off to the side until Stonehedge slipped him a fifty. Morris and Parker joined Stonehedge at the table, which already had several platters of food waiting for them. When the bull terrier grunted impatiently, the actor fed him a piece of meat from one of the platters.

  “Wood-grilled lamb tenderloin wrapped in jamón ibérico,” the actor said, beaming. “Absolutely delicious.”

  Morris knew enough Spanish to guess that jamón ibérico was a kind of expensive imported ham. Given the way Parker wolfed it down and grunted for more, the dog must’ve concurred with Stonehedge’s assessment.

  “Don’t give him too much,” Morris said. “He needs to lose a few pounds.”

  Stonehedge laughed at that. “Don’t we all?” he asked.

  That was certainly true for Morris. He needed to drop ten pounds from his waistline, but for someone who enjoyed gourmet food as much as Stonehedge, his friend somehow stayed as lean as a marathon runner. Before he could object, Stonehedge fed Parker another piece of lamb. Morris snared a piece for himself, and had to agree it was exceptional. A waitress came over to take his drink order. Stonehedge had a bottle of champagne already at the table. When Morris tried ordering a beer, his friend stopped him.

  “You’re not seeing me off with a beer,” he insisted. Then to the waitress, “My buddy will have a le daiquiri.”

  Before Morris could say anything, the waitress was rushing away from the table. “Le daiquiri as opposed to a daiquiri?” he asked.

  “It’s the le that makes it so special,” the actor said with a straight face. “When you taste it, you’ll be glad I changed your order. If not, you can always have her bring you a beer. Besides, this is the last chance I’ll have in four months to be so obnoxious with you.”

  “At least you admit it.”

  Stonehedge lifted his champagne glass, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the slightly rose-colored bubbly. “I’m painfully self-aware of my indulgences and faults.” He took a sip of his drink, and turned again to Morris, his lips showing a pensive smile. “I’m glad you were able to make it. And I’m glad you were able to bring the little guy also.”

  “He never would’ve forgiven me if he knew I’d lost him a mooching opportunity at Luzana’s.”

  As if on command, Parker let out an impatient grunt. Stonehedge fed the dog what looked like a blackened piece of meat from another platter. “Truffle-encrusted Wagyu beef,” he said. “It’s even better than the lamb.”

  Morris whistled Parker over and ordered the bull terrier to lie down. The dog grudgingly did as he was commanded, but not without letting out a few unhappy grunts.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get him to eat his dog food after this,” Morris complained.

  “Eh, if you put it in front of him, he’ll eat it.”

  That was mostly true. Parker rarely ever walked away from his dog dish when there was still food in it. He was also a champion moocher, and Morris himself had proven over the years to be a soft touch, but he was trying to change his ways since Parker’s last visit to the veterinarian. That was three weeks ago, and the veterinarian confirmed what Natalie had been telling him: that Parker needed to lose weight or it could cause health problems later on.

  Morris asked, “When are you leaving?”

  Stonehedge took another sip of his champagne. “Flying out of LAX at eight this evening, and with losing eight hours I won’t be arriving in Dublin until two tomorrow. Then a two-hour drive to Galway.” His expression grew wistful. “My last decent food until then.”

  “This time you’re making a romantic comedy?”

  Stonehedge had taken what looked like a fancy slider from one of the platters and was munching on that. He waited until he swallowed his food before nodding. “You’ve got to try one of these, Morris. They’re amazing. But yeah, that’s right. Stumbling in the Rain. Not the best title for a rom-com, but the script’s good, and my co-star is the lovely Claire Rose. The film will be a nice change of pace from the thrillers I’ve been making of late.”

  Morris took Stonehedge’s advice and tried one of the sliders, and it was every bit as good as his friend had claimed. The filling was a thick slab of bacon coated with a sweet bean garlic glaze. He didn’t have the heart to deprive Parker of bacon that delicious, and he scraped the garlic glaze off and fed the rest of the slider to his dog. Tomorrow would be another day to get back onto Parker’s diet—and his own, for that matter.

  Stonehedge watched with an amused grin, but held back any comment as their waitress had returned with le daiquiri. Morris took a sip and had to admit it was better than any beer he could’ve ordered.

  “A shame Brie isn’t co-starring with you,” Morris said.

  Stonehedge made a face at that idea. “They wanted her, but Brie’s tied up for the next two months. Probably better that we’re not acting together. Competition’s not the best thing for actors in a relationship. But we’ll be seeing each other. Next week she’s flying to Munich for a promotional event, and I’ll hop over for a visit and take advantage of the beginning of Oktoberfest. But enough about that. How about yourself? Any interesting cases?”

  “Mostly run-of-the-mill insurance fraud work.” Morris grabbed another piece of wood-grilled lamb and fed it to a grateful Parker. “The most interesting of which was a stolen coin collection I closed last week. The collection was appraised six months ago at one point two million and was supposedly stolen three months later in a home burglary. It turned out that the owner had sold off the collection to several private buyers, and then staged the burglary. What he really bought for himself was a grand larceny charge.”

  “You’re right. Sounds pretty run-of-the-mill.”

  “You can say what you’re really thinking. Boring.”

  “Well, yeah, compared to hunting serial killers.”

  “After that psycho Jason Dorsage, I’m fine with boring.”

  “You say that now, but just wait until you’re chasing after your next serial killer. Knowing my luck, it will be when I’m in Ireland, and I’ll miss all the fun. And—” The actor abruptly stopped talking and snapped his fingers to get Morris’s attention. “Hello? Are you still there? Damn, Morris, you faded on me, like you went away somewhere deep in your head.”

  “What?” A glint showed in Morris’s eyes as they shifted to meet Stonehedge’s, a hard grimace tightening his lips into a thin line. “Just a random thought. Nothing worth mentioning.”

  Stonehedge had been right, and Morris was lying now. It was more than just a random thought that had distracted him. In fact, he was so distracted that he had fed Parker another piece of lamb without realizing he had done so. The bull terrier certainly didn’t mind this absentminded lapse.

  He hadn’t thought about the Nightmare Man murders in years, but something caused a disturbing fact about those killings to resurface in his mind. Maybe it was because of what Stonehedge had been talking about, or maybe something else was responsible. Whatever it was, it occurred to him that October 2nd would be the seventeen-year anniversary of when the last killings started.

  The Nightmare Man was never caught. When the first set of killings happened thirty-four years ago, there was a witness who had described the killer
as a man in his late forties. Even if the Nightmare Man was still alive, he’d be close to eighty now, if not older than that.

  Still, Morris couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread knowing what might be coming in only a week.

  Acknowledgments

  I would first like to thank my editor, Michaela Hamilton, as this book, as well as my Morris Brick thriller series, wouldn’t exist without her.

  In advance, I’d like to thank the Kensington team who’ll be supporting this book and doing their magic to make it shine: Lauren Jernigan, Michelle Forde, and Alexandra Nicolajsen.

  A big thanks also to my college buddy Alan Luedeking, who, as with all my books, muddled through my initial draft and helped smooth out the language. Also, my longtime friend (since second grade) Jeff Michaels for also providing feedback.

  I owe a special thanks to the great cartoonist Rube Goldberg, whose clever inventions helped inspire Malicious. I’d also like to apologize to the producers and writers of Breaking Bad on behalf of my bad guy from Malicious, Jason Dorsage, for appropriating their nifty “machine gun in a trunk” gadget from their “Felina” episode. What can I say? Dorsage is a world-class jerk!

  As always, I’d like to thank Judy, my wife and best friend, for her encouragement and support, and for also helping to make my manuscript more readable.

  About the Author

  Photo by Judy Zeltserman

  Jacob Stone is the pseudonym for Dave Zeltserman, an award-winning author of crime, mystery, and horror fiction. His crime novels Small Crimes and Pariah were both named by the Washington Post as best books of the year, with Small Crimes also topping National Public Radio’s list of best crime and mystery novels of 2008.

  His horror novel, The Caretaker of the Lorne Field, was short listed by the American Library Association for best horror novel of 2010, a Black Quill nominee for best dark genre book, and a Library Journal horror gem.