by Sean Platt
Lancaster Township, New Jersey
July 16, 2009
When the phone woke him at 3:15 a.m., Michael Blackmore knew Amber was in trouble again: the sixth sense of a parent.
He grabbed the phone between the second and third ring, trying to answer before it woke Margie.
“Yes?” he asked, not bothering to look at the caller ID. No one but Amber called so late.
He was in the middle of wondering what his daughter needed this time — a ride, money, or maybe bailout on another DUI. She was 22, and at risk of dropping out of college, and crapping her future, if she didn’t get it together. For Mike, the line between tough love and support was a high wire. At some point, you had to stand at the nest’s edge and watch your child try to stay airborne.
It wasn’t Amber. It was Detective Lou Santori, an old friend and former colleague. “Mike?” he said. “It’s Lou.”
“Hey Lou, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know how to say this.”
Lou was never short for words.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“It’s Amber … ”
Mike felt the lump in his throat. She wasn’t just in trouble this time.
This wasn’t a call for Daddy to come fix another problem, this was a problem no one could fix.
**
Mike was at the rundown motel within 20 minutes. The Atlanta was a seedy joint known during Mike’s time on the force as a haven for prostitution and drugs. He stepped out of his SUV, into the sweltering summer night and surreal circus of flashing red lights, yellow police tape, curious onlookers, and officers avoiding eye contact. There were already news vans setting up in the parking lot: media vultures to feast on the morbid.
His gut twisted and spilled, each second an agonizing hour until he found Lou in front of the open door of Room 113.
Lou was talking with three other cops, and stepped forward to meet Mike, eyes urgent.
“Before you go in there, I have to tell you, it’s bad.”
Mike’s heart raced faster, dread in his veins. Guts churned. “How bad?”
“The worst I’ve ever seen,” Lou said. Lou had worked homicide for 16 years. He added, “You might want not want to see this, but I couldn’t not call you.”
“No,” Mike said, “I have to.”
Lou ushered him past the officers outside the room. He had probably explained who Mike was — to those who didn’t already know him or hadn’t worked with him — before his arrival.
A crime scene photographer was still snapping photos as Lou led Mike into the room.
His daughter was in pieces.
The impact of seeing Amber dead and mutilated like savaged livestock sent Mike to his knees as if someone had swept his feet from beneath him. He didn’t get up. Couldn’t get up.
He could only stare, shock like dirt in his throat.
Amber’s naked corpse was splayed on the bed. Crude blood “doodles” desecrated her flesh.
What kind of sick fuck does this to someone?
Her head, cut off, sat on the dresser — a prop — eyes wide, hair pulled into pigtails, lips smeared with garish red, like the Joker.
Mike tried telling himself it wasn’t her as his mind flashed through memories that swore otherwise — starting as an infant so tiny and delicate in his arms to a little girl frightened of monsters in her closet at bedtime, staring up at her daddy like a hero who came to protect her until she fell asleep in his arms.
But he had failed his daughter: The monster had gotten her.
Thoughts and questions battered his brain until one rose above the others — why?
Why my baby?
**
Aug. 14, 2009
9:18 p.m.
Mike sat at the Lucky Puck’s wraparound bar. The NHL didn’t start until October, so the televisions lining the joint’s walls were broadcasting a blend of old Devils games and other sports to a mostly blue- collar room, interested in drinking, playing pool, and darts, in that order. The place stank of smoke, alcohol, and all the rest of the stuff that soured the air around loud rock and dance music.
Mike feigned interest in the largest of the bar televisions while keeping an eye on the bartender: Derrick Reynolds of Apartment 215 Chauncey Lane, who was working his magic on a gaggle of women at the other end of the bar.
Derrick, whose father, Stan, owned the place, was one of the last people to see Amber alive on the night she died. Her credit card was used at the bar four hours before she was found. Derrick had processed her order and registered her receipt for $23.59.
Though Derrick wasn’t a suspect in Amber’s rape and murder — plenty of people saw her leave alone — he wasn’t forthcoming with police when questioned. There was something Lou hadn’t liked about the guy, so he let Mike know.
Now Mike was paying a visit to the bar to see what he could find.
Derrick was big at 6 foot 4 — four inches taller than Mike — and seemed around 240 pounds of pure muscle coiled behind a tight fitting black T-shirt and jeans. While Mike was also 240 pounds, he was soft from sitting on his ass for six years writing his popular series of Denton Cox detective novels. If things went south with Derrick, Mike would be forced into Option B, nestled in the holster under his sand-colored coat.
Mike kept nursing his Bud until the girls at the other end of the bar abandoned their spot in favor of some guys tossing darts. He drew a photo of Amber from his inside coat pocket and slid it on the counter as Derrick approached.
Mike said nothing, waiting to see the bartender’s eyes, hungry to see his reaction. Derrick delivered, showing Mike recognition, followed by an immediate attempt to bury a truth in his eyes.
“What’s this?” Derrick asked, his voice instantly defensive.
“My daughter, Amber Blackmore,” Mike said, still holding Derrick’s eyes, “You remember her?”
“Nah, should I?” Derrick asked, pretending to wipe the bar with a dingy, gray rag, avoiding Mike’s stare.
“So, you don’t remember her coming in here on July 15?”
“Hey, man, no offense, but a lot of people come in here, why would I remember her?”
“Because you were one of the last people to see her alive.”
Derrick stopped wiping, and met Mike’s eyes. He wasn’t bright, Mike could tell, but did wear a sinister intelligence, the sort that knew how to avoid and deflect trouble or, as evidenced by his rap sheet, meet it with violence.
“What you sayin’?” Derrick asked.
“I’m not saying anything, I just want to know what you remember about that night — who my daughter spoke to, if maybe she left with someone?”
“I already told the cops I didn’t see nothing. She wasn’t a regular. All I remember is that she sat at the bar, drinking, then left after a while. Wish I could tell you more.”
Derrick locked onto Mike’s eyes, trying his best to seem open and honest. While his eyes and face were selling the lie, his hands, in his pockets for the first time all night, were not.
He was definitely hiding something.
“Listen, I’m not looking to jam you up or anything,” Mike said. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Something you remember from that night that you’re not saying. Maybe it’s something little you don’t think matters, but … ” Mike reached into his coat again. This time pulled out another photo, of the murder scene, and set it on the counter, “ … anything you can tell me, anything at all … ”
Derrick recoiled at the image, backing away, his face red and enraged. “Man, get the fuck outta here with that shit!”
“Please,” Mike said, slipping the photos back in his coat as he felt the scene getting out of control in a way he wasn’t looking for … yet. “Please, I’m her father. I just want answers.”
“I told you I don’t know shit, now get out.”
Derrick pointed at the door. His muscular arm twitched, as if offering to help Mike outside if he wasn’t willing to listen.
Mike no
dded, then obeyed.
For now.
**
Aug. 15, 2009
2:15 a.m.
Mike trailed Derrick on foot to his apartment, six blocks away.
He stopped along the way a few times, running into a surprising number of people on the streets, despite the late hour, shooting the shit, and seeming to flirt with more women — though it was hard to hear from 60 yards back. Mike was afraid Derrick would find someone to accompany him home, but despite his gregarious nature and obvious attempts, Derrick somehow managed to make it back to his apartment alone.
The apartment building was a three-story walk-up, run down like most of the neighborhood. Mike hung back on the far side of the street, in front of a small shopping plaza, watching as Derrick climbed the stairs and made his way to a second-floor apartment. He went inside. Moments later, the dark window beside the front door went bright behind verticals.
Though Mike knew Derrick lived alone, it was always possible that someone was staying over. A dark apartment a few minutes before made it less likely.
Mike waited a few moments, watching both street and building, then crossed at a trot.
**
He didn’t bother knocking.
Mike used the bump key he always carried, unlocked the door, and entered the apartment, gun in hand.
The living room was empty. To his right, Derrick laughed out loud. “Fuck you, noob!”
And then the sound of a machine gun firing.
Mike spun, gun aimed, to see Derrick sitting at a desk in the bedroom, his back to Mike, headphones on, playing some war game on his computer.
Mike smiled as he closed the front door, locked it, and made his way to the bedroom. He pressed his gun against Derrick’s head.
Derrick, startled, jumped from his chair, spun around, fists curled and ready to strike. He saw the gun, and recognized Mike from the bar.
“What the fuck?” he said, throwing his headphones aside.
“Sit down; we need to talk!” Mike growled.
Derrick looked Mike up and down, eyes seemingly assessing the odds of him actually using the gun or maybe figuring out whether he could wrest the weapon before Mike could fire a shot.
He short circuited Derrick’s possible plan by yelling, “I said sit!” then gave him a look that showed the itch in his finger.
Derrick fell back into his chair, some of his bluster and most of the bravado missing from his face.
“Now,” Mike said, “you’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”
“I told you, I don’t know shit,” Derrick lied.
Mike smacked him across the face. Before Derrick could rise from his chair to retaliate, Mike shoved the gun in his crotch. “Sit!”
Derrick’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed hard.
“Now talk.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll tell you, but if you tell the cops, or try and get me to testify at a trial or something, I’m not saying shit! You got that?”
“I get it,” Mike said, not bothering to tell Derrick that if he found the fucker that killed his daughter, there would be no trial, except maybe for Mike’s — if he got caught.
“OK, there’s this guy that worked the kitchen at Lucky Puck’s for a while. Name was Jim Silva, dude was always flirting with the waitresses and shit.”
“OK, and?”
“Well, he up and left a day after the murder. Didn’t call in, didn’t pick up his last paycheck, nothing. Just vanished.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell the officers who talked to you?”
“He was working under the table,” Derrick shook his head. “I didn’t want to make problems for my dad.”
“So, you screwed up a murder investigation?”
“I’m not saying the guy did it! For all I know, he just up and quit. It’s not like the bar business is known for steady workers. People leave all the time, ya know?”
“I want whatever you have on him, license, address, anything.”
Derrick shook his head, “Dad doesn’t keep paperwork on people who work under the table.”
Mike sighed, “Come on … OK, tell me everything you remember about him. What he looks like, does he have tattoos, significant features, anything that stuck out about him?”
“Stuck out?”
“Yeah, anything odd or different, anything at all — like maybe he had Tourette’s, or a limp, or drawl, or something?”
“Now that you mention it, he did have a sorta Southern drawl, but not like a hillbilly. He was an asshole, but almost poetic? He had this expression, said it all the time, though it annoyed the shit outta me and the rest of us. I swear, the guy was like a 4-year-old, saying the same crap over and over whenever he didn’t like something.”
“What was the expression?” Mike asked.
“Beer-battered bullshit.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — Boricio Wolfe
Hollywood, California
September 2013
“Well, ain’t that some beer-battered bullshit?” Boricio said, nodding toward one of the yellow-jacketed Designers blocking the entrance to Cache, the restaurant where they were meeting Rose’s agent.
The Designers were members of some New Age, pseudo-religious cult called the Church of Original Design, sorta big and recently bigger. Boricio didn’t know shit about the church, but figured that Hollywood was probably ground zero for the freaks, and had seen five of the yellow-jacketed aberrations since arriving. This particular freak held a periwinkle flier toward Boricio and Rose. “Hello, brother and sister,” he said, “have you forgiven yourselves and found your true potential?”
Boricio wanted to find his true potential slopping two knuckles with the Designer’s gravy. He could both forgive himself and find his potential fine, and needed no help from Tweety Bird to do it. But Boricio wasn’t broken anymore, at least not like he once was, partly because of Luca the Boy Wonder’s fixing, and partly because of his summer Rose. Either way, his fair lady could smell a bristle on Boricio, even if she didn’t know his scent had horns.
She squeezed his hand, and he glanced over. Her worried eyes and nervous smile pleaded, Please don’t make a scene.
Boricio smiled back, then dug deep into a shit-eating grin. “Why thank you, kind sir! I woke up just this very morning hoping someone would offer me various paraphernalia on ways I could start finding my true potential! I will read this over, thrice at least, highlighting those lines that might change me most for a fourth and fifth gander in the ‘morrow!” Boricio trailed off as Rose yanked him through the front doors and into the posh restaurant he hoped would live up to its reputation.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered behind her, shoving the flier into the belly of her purse. She turned to Boricio. “You could’ve just said thanks, ya know. We didn’t need your hammy Sir Laurence Olivier.”
“You ever know me to just move on from anything? I was delighting their enlightenment. We were the best flier-takers all day. I’ll bet you the relish on my ratatouille that they’re going home to Designer HQ tonight and telling all the other wackos about the nice couple they met, and how they said they’d be highlighting lines on the flier when they got home. Way I see it, you owe me,” Boricio teased. “But I’ll be a good boy until we’re finished with Veronica, especially if you promise I can be a bad boy again when we get back to the hotel.”
Rose smiled at him, her cheeks blushing pink.
The maître d’ led them down a short set of stairs and over to a table, centered in the middle of a bright dining area, sucking in the Southern California sun from behind wide walls of glass. Boricio tailed Rose, squeezing her hand, soaking in the restaurant’s surroundings with a smile.
A restaurant could brag all it wanted, with A’s and stars and reviews across their walls, but only one restaurant in a hundred — if that — knew how to turn a meal into an adventure. Taste mattered as much as experience. A restaurant with swagger was best: balls without bragging, subtle enough to know it without having
to prove it. So far, Cache was ticking Boricio’s boxes, the vibe seemed right, but the real test would be the food. Decor, music, service, even 200 pages of wine, all of it meant dick if the menu went flaccid.
Veronica Barrow waited at their table, smiling.
“Ah, so this must be the Boricio I’ve heard so much about,” she said, standing. Veronica was tall, at least 6 feet, with a long curtain of fiery-red hair. Rose had said she was in her early 50s, but Boricio would’ve taken her for a few ball hairs from 40 at most. Apparently chichi hippie agreed with her.
“Well, well, don’t you think for a second that our Rose only whispers sweet nothings to you.” Boricio took Veronica’s hand and managed to wink at both girls as if he was aiming right at them, though Veronica was directly in front and Rose was at his side. He kissed her hand and finished. “She’s told me so many things about the ‘brilliant Veronica Barrow’ I had to start carrying a scroll so I could just unroll it and scribble at the bottom each time Rose felt the burning need to add a new one, which happens every once upon the hour or so.” Boricio added his widest smile to the full stop at the end of his sentence, then dropped Veronica’s hand as she laughed out loud and started brushing shades of red onto her pretty porcelain skin.
Smells like she knows how to sweat money in tall stacks.
“You know with this much charm, I could get you cast in something just like that?” Veronica snapped her fingers, still smiling.
Boricio said, “You’re just being kind, but even if you weren’t, I’d like to get into Hollywood same as I’d like to have chemo for fun.”
“Boricio!” Rose punched him on the arm.
Boricio pulled out Rose’s chair, waited for her and Veronica to both sit, then took his own seat and said, “I’m interested in it for Rose, though, her words are worth buying and turning into pictures with all the purty people and their shiny teeth. So, let’s focus on her.”
Veronica smiled, said “Of course,” then asked about their flight.
