by Jacob Stone
From where Belkins was standing, he wouldn’t have been able to see much of SCK while he hid behind Susan Twilitter’s car, especially if it had been just a quick look. All Morris could see of Stonehedge was the top of his head and the outline of his shoulders. Still, he asked Belkins to describe the man he had seen.
Belkins shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”
“Any impressions?”
Belkins considered this for a moment. “He was big. Wide. And a round head. Like a pumpkin.”
“Color hair?”
Belkins shook his head. He squeezed his eyes tight as he tried to remember more about the fleeting glance he had seen. “Hard to say. Maybe light brown? I think he had a bald spot.”
“His race?”
“White. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“What was he wearing?”
“That would be a wild guess at best. His shirt might’ve been dark blue. Or maybe gray. Possibly a polo shirt. Or a golf shirt. Again, I’m just guessing here.” Belkins made a disgusted face. “It never occurred to me that he was hiding there. I really thought he was just checking his car.”
That seemed to be all that Morris was going to get out of Belkins, and he thanked him for coming forward.
“I just wish I could’ve told you more.”
“It’s a lot more than we had.”
“Yeah, maybe, but it’s awful thinking what he did to that woman here. And to those other people also. I wish I’d been more on the ball and realized what was going on. Maybe if I had been, I could’ve stopped him from killing that woman.”
Morris didn’t say what was obvious to him. That if Belkins had tried approaching SCK he’d probably be dead now also.
After leaving Belkins, Morris, Parker, and Stonehedge walked the four blocks to Stephanie’s Café. As Morris expected, Parker was a big hit among the waitresses working there. When he showed them photos of Gail Hawes and Susan Twilitter, two of the waitresses remembered seeing Hawes two days earlier, but none of them could recall seeing Twilitter.
“We should split up,” Stonehedge suggested to Morris. “If you give me one of Susan Twilitter’s photos, I’ll take the blocks south of here and show it around to the bars and restaurants and see if she ate at any of them with SCK two days ago.”
Morris agreed that made sense, and he gave the actor one of the photos he had brought of Twilitter. Twenty minutes later he got a call from Stonehedge.
“I found the place where they ate,” Stonehedge said. He gave Morris the address, telling him it was on the same block as the parking garage.
“Don’t question anyone any further,” Morris said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting outside the place for you, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Parker gave a little yelp as he sensed Morris’s excitement, and happily sped up his gait to keep pace with Morris’s half jog. Stonehedge was waiting where he said he would, a hard grin etched on his face as he leaned against the outside of the restaurant.
“A waitress recognized Twilitter’s picture right away. She started to volunteer more information, but I asked her to wait until you got here.”
“What kind of information?”
“That she was here with someone.”
Morris nodded. “You did good,” he said. “I might make an investigator out of you yet.”
“I almost wouldn’t mind that. It’s more honest work than I’ve been doing,” Stonehedge said, his grin tightening. He led the way into the restaurant, which was really more of a dark, dingy bar with some tables up front and booths in the back for more privacy. It was a place for people having an affair who didn’t want to be seen, and even though it was at the height of the lunch hour the restaurant was mostly empty.
Only one waitress was working then; a young, slight girl, very pretty even with all the piercings and her hair dyed an unnatural bright red. She’d been biting her bottom lip in a nervous way when she first saw Morris and Stonehedge approaching, but when she caught sight of Parker her mouth relaxed into an easy smile, and she scratched Parker behind the ear.
“I love these types of dogs,” she said to Morris. Her expression became more worried again. “That picture I was shown, was that the same woman who was killed in the parking garage yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I saw something about it on TV, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I didn’t recognize her until your partner showed me that picture.”
She gave Stonehedge a more thoughtful look. “You remind me of someone, and I couldn’t think of who it was until just now. That actor. Philip Stonehedge.”
“A good-looking guy,” Stonehedge volunteered.
“Dreamy,” the waitress agreed.
“A damn good actor also.”
The waitress made a face at that. “Nah, he’s a ham, but I still wouldn’t kick him out of my bed.”
“Hmm,” Stonehedge murmured.
“You told my associate that Ms. Twilitter was eating here with someone?” Morris said, steering the conversation back to the reason they were there.
The waitress gave Morris a blank look.
“The woman in the photo,” he said.
“Yeah. I remembered her right away when I saw her picture. She came in by herself and took one of the booths in the back. She looked worried, like she was afraid she was going to be stood up, but she ordered for both herself and the person she was waiting for. A salad for herself and a cheeseburger for her friend.”
“And the guy showed up?”
“I’m pretty sure he did, although I never saw him. If it was a he. She was alone when I took the order and brought the food. Same when I brought over the check. She also left by herself. But both the cheeseburger and salad were eaten, and both drinks were empty, and on her way out I asked if her date ever showed. She didn’t say anything, but the way she smiled at me, I think he or she must’ve shown up.”
“You didn’t go by the table to see if they wanted anything?”
“She told me not to. That they wanted their privacy. So I only came over to give her the check when she waved for it.”
“Strange,” Stonehedge said.
“Yeah, I know,” the waitress agreed. “That’s what I thought. But it happens sometimes.”
“Where do you think he went when you brought over the check?” Morris asked.
The waitress shrugged. “If it was a he, the men’s room. If it was a she, ladies’ room.”
“How was the bill paid?”
“Cash. She handed me thirty dollars when I came over with the check, and told me to keep the change, which ended up being a nice tip. Almost ten dollars.”
“Did you see a large man walk in after you brought the food over? Wide body? Round head like a pumpkin?”
She thought about that and shook her head. “If he did come in, I missed him. He could’ve come in through the back door. If he did, I wouldn’t have seen him.”
“Any other waitresses working then?”
“No, just me. I was handling both front and back, and that woman was the only one sitting in the back. Rudy was working the bar. He might’ve seen this guy. He’s got the day off, but I can get you his cell number.”
A woman at one of the front tables had stood up and was giving the waitress an annoyed, impatient look. The waitress smiled apologetically at Morris and told him that she needed to get back to work.
“There’s really nothing else I can tell you. I’ll get you Rudy’s number right after I take care of Queen Bee over there.”
She gave Parker one more scratch behind his ear and walked away.
Chapter Thirty-five
The driver made a face as she looked from Henry to her iPhone, and then back at Henry again. “This photo doesn’t look like you,” she said.
She was right. The photo didn’t look much like him because it wasn’t him. The picture Henry used when he registered last night for the ride-sharing service Pooled was of a man at least ten years younger than him, s
ixty pounds lighter, and with much thicker and longer hair. Of course, Henry used a fake name also. Still, if someone squinted hard enough at the photo, he might be able to imagine this man becoming Henry if he were to go completely to pot.
“A confession. That picture was taken before I got sick,” Henry said in a pleasant enough tone. “A thyroid disorder. I’ve gained some weight since then.”
“You really should update your photo. It’s a safety issue.”
Henry’s pleasant smile dampened with a touch of melancholy, showing that he’d been properly chastised. “You’re a hundred percent right,” he admitted. “My vanity on display.”
The driver stared at Henry for several more seconds before making up her mind. “Where are you heading?” she asked.
“East Hollywood.”
Henry brought his gym bag into the car with him. He started to give her the address, but she stopped him and demanded that he enter it into the app, which he did. Once the car pulled away from the curb, he commented that he didn’t blame her for being overly cautious. “The stories in the news about that maniac on the loose are frightening,” he said.
“They are,” she agreed, a noticeable shiver running through her.
“But I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. They say he’s going to be killing a blonde girl next. Unless you’re dying your hair?”
“Nope. I’m a natural brunette.” She laughed nervously. “Finally an advantage to not being a blonde in Los Angeles.”
“I can’t speak about that,” Henry said. “My wife’s a blonde, but we’re not from here.”
“I figured as much. New York, right?”
“Myself, Long Island originally. My wife’s from Florida. But we’ve been living in Portland, Oregon, for a number of years. If I knew you were going to be having this trouble down here, we’d have stayed there, especially since according to the news last night this maniac also likes to kill men my age who are somewhat overweight, which I am. Okay, maybe I’m more than somewhat overweight, but who knows whether this killer has a cut-off limit for what his male victims have to weigh? Or that the killer is even a he? Maybe the killer’s a she.” He smiled playfully and added, “Maybe I should be the one worried sitting back here.”
She laughed at that. “Oh sure, you’ve got a lot to worry about with me. And I guarantee you the killer’s a guy. No woman would be doing what he’s doing.”
“You might be right,” Henry said, smiling to himself at seeing how much more at ease she had become. She only saw him as a doddering, fat, middle-aged man, and certainly no threat to her. Yes, he was quite pleased with how this was going, especially given how the news last night made it so much harder for him to get his next victim.
Of course, finding a twenty-something year old full-figured blonde to kill wasn’t the problem. Los Angeles had a ridiculous number of those types of girls for Henry to grab, and picking one off a street corner would be as easy as picking an orange from an orange grove, at least if he didn’t have to worry about getting caught. With all the surveillance cameras out there, hidden and otherwise, and now every twenty-something blonde girl looking at guys like him as potential deranged killers, getting caught was a very real worry. Henry knew he had to be more cautious than earlier, and equally important, he had to be smarter about how he went about it. If it wasn’t for Sheila (well, if it wasn’t for Sheila, he wouldn’t be doing this in the first place, would he?), he wouldn’t much care if he went to prison or simply just died. But Sheila needed him, and because of that when he grabbed a girl he had to be a hundred percent sure it was safe doing so.
The idea he was now working on had come to him yesterday when he was stopped at a red light in Santa Monica. He had watched a car pull up to a twenty-something girl loaded with packages, and even though it wasn’t a taxi, and the driver and the girl didn’t seem to know each other, she had gotten into the car anyway. Henry had rolled down his window and heard enough of their conversation to realize that it was some sort of ride-sharing service; something that she had ordered with her iPhone. He had heard about these companies but never paid much attention to them. In Portland he walked everywhere, and in Los Angeles he drove everywhere. Besides, he was an old-fashioned guy, and if he needed to pay for a ride, he’d rather use a taxi. But when he saw that girl get into the car, it gave him an idea of how he could grab his next victim. Last night, he read up on one of these services called Pooled to understand how it worked, downloaded the app to his iPhone, and registered with a fake name and bogus photo. Earlier today he bought a blonde wig to make it even easier to find his next victim. After all, how would Sheila know that he’d put a blonde wig on the girl before cracking open her skull?
As Henry sat back, he was amazed at how easy this was working out. When he had pressed a button on the app signaling that he wanted a ride, he had no intention of making his driver his next victim since he expected it to be a guy. His only purpose for trying out the service was to observe in person how it worked since he expected to find his victim by pretending to be a driver. But when the app sent him a picture of his driver and he saw it was a girl the right age, he thought, why not? He had the blonde wig in his gym bag, and as long as her body was close enough to what Sheila needed, why not? As it turned out, her body was exactly what Sheila wanted. He might feel a little guilty draping the blonde wig over her head and pulling that type of deception on his wife, but he’d be able to live with that.
The address he had given her was to a shuttered nightclub on a dusty stretch of road that had nothing nearby. Henry had passed it when he had driven to see Madame Asteria, and after he left her psychic storefront he drove back to the empty building to give it a closer look. The back lot behind the building would be deserted enough for him to do what he needed to do, but it was also obvious that power had been cut to the building and that it had no active security system. He’d easily be able get inside of it and have more privacy if he desired.
As the car approached the shuttered nightclub, the driver asked him if he was sure of the address.
“The place looks out of business,” she said.
“It is. I’m thinking of buying the building and want to give the place a looksee. Pull up in back, okay?”
“Sure. Oh, do you want me to send you the picture I took of you?”
Henry wasn’t sure he heard that right. “Excuse me?”
“I always take photos of my fares and send them to my dispatcher. It’s a safety precaution. The picture I took of you is pretty good, and would make a good replacement for what you registered on Pooled.”
She reached back and handed him her iPhone, which showed the photo she’d taken. Henry hadn’t even realized she had done this. He felt a numbness spreading along his forehead as he handed the device back to her. He tried to decide whether she showed it to him because she was suspicious of him or was just being friendly. Whichever it was, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be able to kill her. Just as well. He might as well look for a blonde victim so he wouldn’t have to lie to his wife later.
“No thanks,” he said. “I look like I’ve got three chins in that photo.”
“You really need to replace what you’ve got up there. I guarantee you that you’re going to find drivers who won’t pick you up because of it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Henry said curtly.
She parked behind the building. A perfect, isolated location, all for nothing. He wouldn’t even be able to use it with another victim since this woman would now make the connection.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
Since it was expected, he got out of the car and made a show of inspecting the building as he walked around it. When he returned to her car, he asked her to take him back to the same spot where she had picked him up. He almost recommended that she buy herself some lottery tickets since it was clearly her lucky day, but he wisely bit his tongue instead.
Chapter Thirty-six
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New York, the present
“Caucasian, big, wide body, round head like a pumpkin, bald spot, dark brown hair,” FBI agent Julie Crasmore said to Morris over Bogle’s cellphone, repeating the description of SCK that Morris had given her. “How much credence do you give this witness?”
“I don’t know. He’s not a flake. He did see SCK hiding behind a car, but from sixty feet away, and as he said, only a fleeting glimpse. But the lighting’s good, so there’s that. I’d say it’s a sincere description from the witness. But maybe not fully reliable.”
“Except it’s better than anything we’ve had,” Crasmore said with a sigh. “You found where SCK dined with one of his victims?”
“We did. A restaurant in Santa Monica. Only one waitress was working then, and she didn’t see him, probably because he slipped in and out through the back door. We’re still trying to track down the bartender who was working that day.”
“Any surveillance cameras in the area?”
“None. He parked in a garage less than half a block from the restaurant. He was careful in picking the place. We’ll get something on the news tonight about him being there with Susan Twilitter, but I’m not hopeful on us getting any leads from it.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to see what we can find from our end.”
Crasmore handed Bogle back his cellphone, and once Bogle was off the phone, Crasmore suggested they change tack.
“Let’s assume this description of SCK is good, or at least mostly good. Let’s also assume that you’re dealing with the same SCK in Los Angeles, and not a copycat. Pete, how about you and Lemmon look at anyone who was arrested and later incarcerated who could fit SCK’s description?”
Childs nodded. “Sure, how about yourself?”
“I’m going to pull every damn major crimes file, and with Bogle’s help, we’re going to see if anyone matching SCK’s description could’ve been involved.”
Crasmore and Bogle decided to start with crimes that happened near the date they had forecasted SCK to start killing again based on his previous pattern, and then work their way forward and backward from that date. Twenty minutes after they pulled the first batch of files, Crasmore tossed one of them to Bogle. Several photos were in the file. The first one showed the victim before she had been attacked. Blonde, hourglass figure, very pretty. The other photos showed her crippled, her body unnaturally twisted.
