Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  The solid blue door opened and Pinelli entered followed by a woman in her late twenties. She was slim and slightly taller than the NYPD detective. She wore practical flat shoes, a pair of black trousers, a tan pullover, and carried a long coat, which she slung over the back of one of the chairs. Her light brown hair fell straight around her shoulders. She had a tiny, almost button nose, and a wide mouth with thin lips. Her cheeks and nose were covered with delicate freckles. At first glance, she seemed fragile, but her eyes gave her away. They were beautiful wide ovals with pools of amber brown nestled in the centre, but there was a hardness to them that Wallace had come to recognise as the cynical mark of every police officer he’d ever met.

  ‘I’m Special Agent Christine Ash,’ the woman said. ‘Detective Pinelli says you want to talk.’

  ‘I’d like to see some identification,’ Wallace replied. Pinelli rolled his eyes and Ash sighed, but Wallace didn’t care how paranoid he sounded. Ash pulled a leather wallet from her coat pocket and flipped it open to reveal her FBI identification.

  ‘You want to tell me your name?’ Ash asked as she sat opposite Wallace.

  ‘This needs to be a private conversation,’ he said, looking pointedly at Pinelli.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ Pinelli remarked. He shook his head at Ash, who nodded. Pinelli stared at Wallace with undisguised hostility as he backed out of the room and closed the door.

  ‘So?’ Ash said finally.

  ‘I found your name in a file given to me by Detective Sergeant Bailey,’ Wallace replied. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Pat? Sure. We met at an International Tactical Law Enforcement conference a few years back,’ Ash said.

  ‘Did he call you recently?’ Wallace asked. ‘In the last few months?’

  Ash nodded.

  Wallace sensed a change in her demeanour; she was beginning to take him seriously.

  ‘A couple of months ago,’ Ash acknowledged. ‘He asked me to look into something.’

  ‘A suicide,’ Wallace noted. ‘Kye Walters.’

  ‘I told Bailey what the local PD report said; it was a tragic case but there was no evidence of foul play.’

  ‘Kye Walters was murdered,’ Wallace said flatly. ‘He was murdered by the same man who tried to kill me.’

  Ash hesitated, her head tilting ever so slightly as a look of puzzlement crossed her face. ‘Murdered?’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘And how do you know that?’ Ash asked with more than a hint of disbelief in her voice.

  ‘I’ve followed the killer’s trail all the way from London,’ Wallace replied.

  ‘Does DS Bailey know about this?’

  Wallace nodded. ‘The murderer almost killed him. He’s in hospital in a coma.’

  Ash watched Wallace, but gave no indication of her thoughts.

  ‘He believed me. He’s the one who gave me the files on Kye Walters,’ Wallace continued. ‘The killer hangs his victims. He then publishes a suicide note online. The note reveals a shameful secret that supposedly drove the person to take their own life.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take this information to the police?’ Ash challenged him.

  ‘I saw this man gun down two police officers. He’s tried to kill me three times. Nowhere’s safe from him,’ Wallace replied.

  Ash studied him for a moment, and he began to relax as it became clear that she was taking his story seriously. She leaned forward and spoke slowly, ‘See, Detective Pinelli is a very thorough man. Among other, more routine searches, he also checked the Metropolitan Police’s list of wanted fugitives and found your mugshot somewhere near the top. We know that your name is John Wallace.’

  The cool delivery of Ash’s words did nothing to lessen their impact, and Wallace felt as though he had been kicked in the gut. They knew his real name.

  ‘We know that you are an escaped psychiatric patient currently wanted by the Metropolitan Police in connection with a series of murders, including the attempted murder of DS Patrick Bailey. What I can’t understand is why you’d tell us about your crimes. Maybe you thought we Americans are too stupid to do our jobs properly,’ Ash mused coldly.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone!’ Wallace attempted to stand, but his cuffs caught against the anchor and he fell back into his seat.

  Ash stood and knocked on the door. ‘The people you attacked are pressing charges,’ she said, as Pinelli rolled into the room.

  ‘I didn’t attack anyone,’ Wallace protested.

  ‘There are dozens of witnesses who say otherwise,’ Ash countered. ‘You are going to be transferred to Rikers Island where you will be held pending a trial. If convicted, once you have served whatever sentence you are given in the United States, you will be extradited to the UK to face the charges brought against you there.’

  Wallace thumped his fists against the table. ‘You have to listen to me! Someone tried to kill me! He killed Connie!’

  ‘Good luck, Mr Wallace,’ Ash said quietly. ‘I hope things work out for you.’

  Wallace felt a dark storm of despair sweep over him as Ash turned away. She left the room and Pinelli followed her, flashing a dark smile as he pulled the door shut. As Wallace heard the sound of the bolt snapping into the frame, he looked down at his hands and realised they were shaking.

  30

  Ken Pallo stumbled out of the theatre and almost fell over Giselle, his hot young companion. Pallo chuckled at the euphemism; companion was so much more acceptable than whore. Giselle giggled back at him, her unfocused eyes shining wide. Fuelled by coke and some mighty trippy OG Kush, they were both soaring higher than any kite. Pallo grabbed Giselle’s firm ass, making her yelp with impish delight. A couple of passing suits frowned, but Pallo didn’t give a rat’s fuck. What was the point of being in the movie business if you couldn’t grab ass and get high? Giselle had been stroking his dick through his pants for much of the movie, which earned them icy looks from the cold bitch seated on the other side of him. He’d met her before – Nina or Nita or some such – she was the wife of a middling studio executive. A perma-tanned, grey-suited cog called Josh who helped keep the big greasy wheels turning. With the amount of money he’d sunk into the picture, Pallo probably could have cowgirled Giselle right in front of NinaNita, and the thin-lipped nobody would have just had to sit there and smile for the money shot.

  Giselle pulled Pallo forward. She skipped on, a lithe figure in her gold-sequinned mini-dress and matching dagger-point heels. Pallo kept hold of her hand, her tiny fingers folded in the fleshy cushion of his palm, but his body wasn’t designed for rapid flight, and he stumbled, pulling Giselle back so that she landed flat on her ass in the entrance to the Academy lobby. Pallo burst out laughing and people turned to sneer at the brouhaha. Pompous fucks, Pallo thought as he caught the disapproving glances, it’s a movie premier, not a fucking wake. Giselle looked muddled for a moment, as though she was trying to figure out why her legs were sprawled in front of her, and then she grinned. Pallo offered her his hand. At five feet six and two hundred and fifty pounds, there weren’t many things his body was good for, but impersonating an anchor was one. He didn’t budge as the tiny girl, who couldn’t have been much more than a third his age, pulled herself up.

  He led Giselle into the large, marble-clad lobby and scanned it for familiar faces. The vast room was humming with the garbled noise of a couple of hundred people: needy writers shuffled around, their pleading eyes desperately searching for approval from one of the many puffed-up producers; brightly polished agents stalked through the lobby, their feral eyes searching any opportunity to poach hot talent; faded directors wandered about the place, desolately combing it for any crumbs of good fortune; and bubbly publicists guarded their star clients with phony smiles and false promises served up to cynical members of the Hollywood press. All around the room hot wannabes pressed themselves on power, their eyes brimming with the promise of lustful bargains to be struck. Studio executives danced around in a series of beaming, insincere interactions. Pallo was in the rar
est of all groups; the money men. Imperious figures, they rarely moved. Eventually most of the hustlers in the room would drift into their orbit and try very hard to prove that they weren’t angling for a buck.

  ‘Ken!’

  Pallo turned and saw Johnny Urban approaching. Urban was one of the movie’s producers and something of a legend in the Hollywood community. Pallo had heard a rumour that Urban murdered his first boyfriend. Strangled him after he came at Urban with a knife. Even though he’d been a participant in many deaths, Pallo had never killed anyone. The thought of choking the life out of someone excited him, and Pallo stroked the nape of Giselle’s neck, fantasising about what would come later.

  ‘What a fucking movie!’ Urban proclaimed. ‘We’re already getting awards buzz.’

  He slapped Pallo on the shoulder in friendly bonhomie. The blow was so slight that Pallo struggled to believe the murder rumour was true. Urban was short and skinny and looked like he’d have trouble crushing a soda can, let alone squeezing the life out of a crazed lover. Only in Hollywood could the aphrodisiac of power overwhelm all else. It didn’t matter how short, ugly, bald or murderous Urban was; this weedy nerd never ran short of hot young twinks. There was one on his arm, a perfectly bronzed young blond in a light linen suit.

  If it hadn’t been for Giselle’s hand all over his crotch, Pallo wouldn’t have enjoyed the movie at all. Too much talking, not enough explosions. But Urban’s pictures had a track record of making money and Pallo had deliberately chosen to invest in a highbrow drama slate. A few serious award-winning movies would help counterbalance his more licentious business interests, and his private peccadilloes.

  ‘I loved it,’ Pallo lied. ‘You’ve done a great job.’

  ‘Thanks, man,’ Urban smiled. Neither of the middle-aged men bothered to introduce their hot young mates.

  ‘Hey, Bob!’ Urban called over Pallo’s shoulder. ‘We gotta go say hi,’ he explained, as he patted Pallo on the shoulder and swiftly moved on to the next hollow conversation.

  Pallo felt the happy effects of his buzz dissipating. There were no familiar faces in sight, just an assortment of hostile eyes. Pallo knew he wasn’t going to win the vote for prom king. The Hollywood community disapproved of the way in which he’d made his money, but his background wasn’t the source of the hostility; it was pure sour grapes that he’d invested with Johnny Urban and not them.

  ‘I’m sobering up,’ he said to Giselle. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  Pallo woke to the familiar sensation of tiny hooves galloping deep within his chest. At fifty-four he knew he was running out of track. His pasty, bloated body told the tale of a life lived fast and hard. He belched and raw acid burnt his throat. The hooves beat their irregular rhythm and Pallo knew he needed something to bring him down. He was getting too old for coke, but it helped him claw on to a youthful vitality that was long past. He sat up and looked down at Giselle’s perfectly smooth curves. Her neck bore the faint red imprint of ligature marks, and Pallo glanced at the woven silk noose that hung over the side of the bed. Girls like Giselle got extra for giving life to his fantasy: five hundred bucks to compensate them for having to wear a scarf until the marks faded.

  Giselle was deep asleep, her face pressed against his six-hundred-thread linen, but that didn’t stop Pallo using his finger to trace the curve of her firm tits, along her soft belly and down between her thighs. Giselle stirred, and Pallo felt the painful ache of a nascent erection. He knew a blast of powder would kill the pain and give him the juice for another fuck, but he was worried his heart wouldn’t take it. Ten years ago, maybe, but now . . .

  Pallo grabbed the noose, and hauled himself out of bed on to the teak floor, which felt cool as he crossed his large bedroom. He unwound the noose, placed the woven rope in the top drawer of his dresser and turned towards the panoramic window to look at the dark Pacific Ocean, which crashed against the Malibu sand, as puffball clouds shrouded the moon. The view was worth every cent of the twenty-two million the place had cost. Pallo quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and crossed the landing to the marble steps leading down into the vast ocean-front living room. He was halfway down the stairs when he felt a draught and realised that the ocean roar was much louder than usual. He looked across the room and saw that one of the retractable glass panels was open. He and Giselle were so fucking blasted that he had forgotten to lock up properly.

  He ambled round the back of the stairs to the chef’s kitchen that he never used and opened his medicine drawer. He produced a pack of beta blockers and swallowed a couple with a glass of water. Keep the beast alive a little longer, Pallo thought as he crossed the living room to the control terminal that operated the retractable panels. He pushed the ‘secure’ button, which was supposed to close every window and panel in the building, but nothing happened.

  ‘Fuckin’ thing,’ Pallo seethed as he moved towards the faulty panel. The crashing roar of the ocean filled his ears as he stepped on to the wooden deck that ran round the whole house. None of his neighbours’ lights were on. The only lights he could see came from a house about a mile up the beach – it might have been the old Griffin place – so he didn’t have to worry about anyone catching a peek of his hairy ass as he crouched down and checked the panel runners. With the ocean filling his ears, Pallo pushed his fingers into the metal groove that was scored into the deck to enable the glass panels that made up the living room walls to move freely. His finger caught on something sharp that was wedged under the runner of the faulty panel.

  ‘Fuck!’ Pallo hollered as he whipped his finger to his mouth. He stood, and was about to go inside when he sensed something behind him. He turned to see a masked man step towards him, his arm raised. Acrid fluid sprayed from a small aerosol in the man’s hand, and Pallo immediately felt the world turn heavy and distant. He didn’t even have time to panic as his legs gave way and he blacked out.

  Cold static. Pain flowing over his body. Not pain. Fluid. Water. Pallo made sense of the signals and he was assailed by the world as sensations flooded his mind. He was on his back, lying in shallow water. Intermittent spray flecked his face as the Pacific waves rolled in. The air was infused with the sour, briny stench of the sea and the crash of rolling breakers filled his ears. There was darkness above him. Something solid that obliterated the sky. Pallo turned his head and saw a forest of thick wooden columns. The pier. He was beneath Malibu Pier. He looked along the beach and could see his house half a mile away. He longed for the softness of his bed and the warmth of Giselle, and tried to roll on to all fours, but realised that his hands were bound. He pushed his head back and saw his masked assailant. The man wore a long coat. Pallo could see flashes of dark armour beneath it, like SWAT gear. The guy was standing on a packing crate, his back to Pallo. He jumped off the crate, splashing Pallo with water. Pallo blinked, and when his eyes finally cleared, he saw something hanging above him. It took him a moment to realise what it was; looped over a structural support, a hangman’s noose swung in the breeze.

  ‘No!’ Pallo yelled, as his masked assailant drew out the slack so that he could pull the noose down. ‘Fuck you! You can’t do this!’

  ‘I know about Next Life,’ the masked man revealed. ‘I know what you do when you think no one is watching.’

  The exposure of his darkest secret filled Pallo with terror and he thrashed about in the water, but his efforts were futile; with his arms bound behind him, he could hardly move. He tried to keep his head bucking from side to side, but his frenetic struggle proved fruitless and the masked man slipped the noose under his chin and pulled it snug around his neck.

  ‘It’s easier if you stand,’ Pallo’s assailant said in a voice that was just loud enough to be heard above the waves.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Pallo spat. He felt the rope bite into his neck as the masked man began pulling on the other end. Pallo tried to curse, but the words choked in his throat as the noose hugged ever tighter. He was shocked at the ease with which the man was able to hoist him
out of the surf. Within moments he was dangling beneath the pier, his feet swinging above the foaming water. Pallo should have been panicking, but the beta blockers kept him calm, and his defective heart thumped a steady rhythm. As the rope crushed his neck and his lungs burned with a scorching lust for air, Pallo felt his arms fall limp as his bonds were cut. His hands instinctively rushed to his throat and clawed at the rope, which was lost in massy folds of flesh. So this is what it feels like, he thought, as tendrils of darkness whipped the edges of his mind. The masked man walked round and stood in front of him, his opaque goggles concealing any emotion he might have felt as he watched his victim die.

  ‘Who?’ Pallo tried to say, but there was no sound as his lips moved, just a fierce burning in his throat. There were countless names that might have put him at the end of the rope. He’d spread way too much pain in pursuit of his own warped pleasures. As the cool January breeze gently swung him, Pallo turned away from his killer and gazed up at the heavens.

  Twisting at the end of a fucking noose, he reflected. Justice is one ironic bitch.

  Pallo smiled, as death finally took him.

  31

  ‘Good morning.’ Arturo Alvarez smiled as he breezed past Ash’s cubicle. My boss, Ash thought glumly as she considered her shrivelled career. Alvarez was on his way to a twelve-by-twelve corner office with a view of Broadway and the city beyond. She was stuck in a four-by-four cubicle in the heart of the building. Windows were a distant privilege that she’d have to earn all over again. At twenty-nine, Ash was four or five years older than most of the peers that had boxes next to hers.

  ‘Mornin’.’ Parker, Ash’s bright-eyed, boy scout neighbour, looked as though he was tempted to salute as he stood up and called after Alvarez, who wheeled round mid-stride, nodded a half-smile and then continued towards his office.