“Yer sure can pick ’em, Spooky,” said Perry with a laugh. “Mind you, she ain’t the worst date you’ve had.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was true, I’m sad to say.
“Scary-Mary,” Perry said, counting on the fingers of his good hand. “Hairy-Mary, oh and that Kraut bird with webbed fingers.”
Perry laughed some more when the banshee ran at him with her knife held aloft. Perry was quicker and twisted to make himself smaller from the attack, and as he turned he reached in his pocket and pulled out the flail, hitting her on the temple as she passed, half the side of her head spurted across the room as she fell.
Perry used his boot to roll her over: it was a grim sight, the eye socket crushed, blood poured from the cavity. The gruesome, medieval weapon had done its job. I recognized her as the silver-haired producer, Sylvia, I still couldn’t remember her surname, from Bruce Matherson’s party. God knows what her story was or how she fitted in. Mia struggled on the ground, distracting us, while Sylvia sat up determinedly behind Perry. One eye dangled from the crushed socket and it rolled on her cheek. She moved her head to get her focus with her good eye, spotted Perry, stood, raised her knife, and staggered towards him. I snatched Perry’s flail, swung it above my head a few times to get maximum momentum, and smashed it into the side of her head. This time her skull caved in and her eyeball shot past me like a bullet as she crumpled to the floor. It was over before Perry had a chance to even know he was in danger, but as he realized he let out a sigh and high-fived with his injured hand and splattered us both with blood, which set us off into fits of laughter.
I heard police sirens and said to Perry, “You’d better get outta here.”
He looked at his bloody hand. “I need to get this seen to.”
“Ya can’t go to a regular hospital with a gunshot wound,” I reminded him.
“It’s alright, I know a man.” He smiled, flicked a salute and left.
EPILOG
The Dog & Duck Bar, 555 Pico Boulevard, CA 90410 – the next day.
After a lot of explaining, most of which wasn’t believed, but as there was no evidence – yet – to pin on me, I was finally released. I entered the pub, saw Perry standing at the bar with Ferdy and Mary: they started clapping and the other drinkers joined in.
“Here he is, the man of the hour,” said Perry.
“Completely exonerated.”
“Got away with it by the skin of yer teeth.”
“As usual,” said Sheldon.
“You really are one lucky sonofagun,” agreed Elvis.
“I don’t know how yer got away with it,” said Perry. “But I’m double-pleased yer did.”
“I’m flavor of the month with the media, the department didn’t wanna look bad, but I’m gonna have to watch my step in the future.”
“Did yer hear Mary’s good news?” said Perry.
“Nope.”
“I wanted to start a soup kitchen again,” she began. “In Stanley’s name to give me something to do really, and I was up on Sunset collecting when my phone went off. I was distracted as I scooped it out my bag and when I looked up all this money was on my collecting tray. Well! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I took it along to the police station assuming it was stolen. They checked it out and said it was kosher and that the money’s mine. Beyond my wildest dreams. I can reopen the soup kitchen immediately.”
Ferdy asked, “How much?”
“Nearly fifty thousand dollars!”
“Huh, fancy that,” I said, trying to feign disinterest.
Ferdy snorted into his beer. “But that’s exactly the same amount Marcus Eglin’s family said was missing from his safe.”
I made a ‘cut it’ signal across my throat and Ferdy looked from me to Perry then back to me again.
“But you, that means. . .”
“I knew it was you,” Mary said, digging me in the ribs. “You little scoundrel, I saw you strolling away.”
“Just suppose for a moment,” I said uncomfortably as all eyes were on me, “that I did take it, at least the money will do some good now.”
We ordered drinks and smiled at each other. Today was a good day: the good guys had won for once, in a roundabout way. We’d exposed a massive pedophile ring, caught the worst serial killer in a long time, and dispatched some depraved scumbags along the way: all in all, a win.
“What’s er . . . what’s the story with Mia?” Ferdy asked nervously.
Perry said, “She’s locked up in the loony bin, ain’t she?”
“Yah,” I replied.
“Forever?”
“Of course.”
“So, clinically she’s . . .?”
“Mad as a box of frogs.”
We drank some beer and he asked, “She ain’t explained why she did it?”
“No idea, she still hasn’t spoken. Not one syllable since she arrived at the mental institution – just clammed up.”
Mary asked, “And you still don’t know who she is?”
“Not a clue. We’ve checked all fingerprint databases both here and abroad. She’d spent years planning this. She was focused and determined. She was gonna get me for the death of her husband at whatever the cost. She was a computer whizz and had money from her modeling and the porn work and more recently her websites paid healthily.”
“Was she really into that Aztec stuff?”
“Her husband was and she looked up to him as some sorta Messiah, but I think it was more of a red herring. We had no idea about the sacrifice connotations when he was doing the killings.”
Perry looked at me and could tell I wasn’t satisfied. “Yer took down a serial killer, Bruce Matherson and his gang of high-rankin’ pedophiles, yer obtained a subscription list of sickos who’ve since been arrested both here and abroad. That was a phenomenal result in anybody’s book.”
I shrugged.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Well, it’s Mia, we’ll never know who she is, or where she came from. I don’t like loose ends.”
“She ain’t called Mia?” asked Perry in surprise.
“Mia. M.I.A., missing in action? Her surname, Rage? Mia Rage, or pronounced Rage, to rhyme with barge. Mia Rage. Mirage. She was never there.”
He shook his head at the ingeniousness of it all. “Still, she’ll be locked away in the nuthouse forever and that’s got to be a good thing, ain’t it?” he said with a smile. “How come yer didn’t blow her away like all the other serial killers?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t going to tell him that I couldn’t bring myself to destroy such a beautiful, captivating creature.
“If she does speak and asks to see yer, will yer go?”
“Yah.”
“’Coz yer love her?”
“Yah.”
“Even though she’s an evil killer, who tried to give yer AIDS and attempted to frame yer for all her murders?”
The bartender placed drinks in front of us and we raised them to our lips. I shrugged. “Well, to paraphrase from the movie, Some Like It Hot, ‘nobody’s perfect.’”
We ‘clinked’ our glasses and drank.
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Other books in the series.
ON THIN ICE – Spooky Jackson Book II
LAPD detective Spooky Jackson serial killer specialist is back!
Recently reinstated (again) after a
n internal affairs investigation (again) into his unorthodox methods, he is tasked with capturing the Flayer whose viciousness is unparalleled, literally skinning the body of the still-conscious victims, taunting them with the slow excruciating torture until they die.
Spooky heads the Homicide Special Section, a citywide unit tasked with solving murders liable to garner intense media coverage due to its high-profile nature, a victim of a serial killer, the viciousness of their death, or involving celebrities – and the flayer has ticked all three boxes in spades.
The flayer has targeting the cast of the number one TV show, where Spooky and his new partner Harriet discover that the actors have a loose connection over a crime in their past – but no one is talking, but they are unquestionably terrified believing that they will suffer the next horrific death on the list.
Spooky and Harriet’s investigation finds them speeding headlong into the path of the most ruthless and devious killer they have ever encountered . . .
CIRCLING THE DRAIN – Spooky Jackson – Book III
Much to Spooky’s annoyance he is partnered with John-James W. McCarthy III, an uptight, ivy-league straight arrow, who he clashes constantly with his constant criticizing over his unconventional methods in police detection.
Spooky almost caught the latest basket-case causing terror on the streets of Los Angeles but was hesitant in confirming his sighting as he thought he’d be ridiculed as no one would believe his claim that he resembled bigfoot.
They chased the elusive serial killer, now known as the Master, who has the ability to slip through their fingers and appears to vanish into thin air.
The Master’s callous hit ‘n’ run method as a means of escape gave Spooky the clue into the killer’s passion for speed and supercars, which was also Spooky’s obsession in his youth, leading him to suspect that not only was the Master an old adversary, but that he was also targeting those close to him . . .
BACK TO THE WALL – Spooky Jackson – Book IV
Detective Spooky Jackson heads the Homicide Special Section, a citywide task force, specializing in the arrest of serial killers and has been tasked with capturing the Ripper, who’s brutality is incomparable, literally ripping apart the body of the still conscious victim and removing their organs until they die.
Spooky figures that the slayings geographically will mean working with some old adversaries from when he was in Vice, where due to his integrity he blew the whistle on their widespread corruption resulting in some serving jail time, with those that remained having been sent to the boondocks swearing revenge.
Worse still, while dodging the Rat Squad looking into his unorthodox methods, to his horror he is partnered with Katie, an ex-colleague, who has good reason to despise him. He realizes with a sinking dread that the Ripper is recreating the crimes of arguably the most famous serial killer of all time . . .
On The Edge Page 40
