Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I said.

  “This man and I were both rendered powerless by deadly assassins,” Jim said. “We both faced the specter of death, wrestled the Grim Reaper to the ground, and emerged triumphant. Now I am here to give comfort and support to my stun gun soul mate. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We’re the metaphor police,” I said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “It’s good to see you two haven’t changed,” Halsey said. “Let me repeat what I attempted to say in my semi-conscious state yesterday. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “We had a lot of help,” I said.

  “You mean Victor Shea?” Halsey said.

  “The jury is out on whether he actually helped,” Terry said.

  “He was in here this morning,” Halsey said. “He took a bullet for me.”

  “Noble, but dumb,” Terry said. “He also almost got you killed in a car wreck, and he helped the man who was trying to kill you get away.”

  “That’s not the way Victor tells it,” Halsey said.

  “He’s a screenwriter,” Terry said. “He gets paid to make shit up.”

  “Halsey was just telling me what those bastards put him through,” Jim said. “They were laying for him in the parking lot of that Korean restaurant. After he and Tyler had lunch—”

  “Stop,” I said. “As long as I have both ends of the horse in the room, why don’t we hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Y’know, Michael,” Jim said, “I feel like putting you back in my will, just so I can take you out again. Go ahead, Halsey.”

  “It’s like Jim said. They were waiting in the parking lot. I found out later that they had originally come for Tyler, but I was the bonus. Stun one, get one free. Tyler and I had just made a handshake agreement on our new partnership over lunch. He had been warned that he might be next and he was in a hurry to get out of town. We were going to have the lawyers draw everything up, and we would both sign it when it was safe for him to come back to Los Angeles.”

  “Did you ever think that you were in danger?” I said.

  “At first, yeah. I thought maybe they were killing people connected to I.C.U. But then over lunch Tyler told me about the Joy Lee connection. I knew her, but I didn’t know about the drug- running. I left the drugging part of my past behind. Ever since I was in prison I’ve been working to help get people back on the right track. Next week we’re opening another rescue mission.”

  “So getting back to you and Tyler in the parking lot,” I said. “You didn’t think you were a target.”

  “Neither did I,” Jim said, “and that’s when we both got stun-gunned.”

  “Dammit, Dad,” I said.

  Halsey laughed. “I think he’s just doing that to piss you off, Mike. Anyway, Tyler and I were walking to our cars, and like typical Hollywood assholes, we both already had our cell phones in our hands, ready to check for messages. We were saying good-bye when I got zapped. Never felt anything like it in my life. I pieced together later that Tyler started running. Roger went after him with a real gun and shot him. They lifted me into the back of the pickup and chloroformed me. Next thing I know, I’m naked on a table in a trailer and they’re trying to bleed me dry.”

  “Did you know who they were?” I said.

  “They didn’t hide it. Tyler knew right away. They told me because they wanted me to know. They showed us home movies of Joy growing up, so we could understand what they had lost.”

  “And justify why it was okay to kill you,” Terry said.

  “I tried to tell them that I had nothing to do with her death,” Halsey said. “But they blamed me. They told me I was the boss. I should have protected her. They don’t know a hell of a lot about moviemaking. There was only one boss, and that was Barry.”

  “They had no problem telling you who they were, because they were confident that you’d be too dead to tell anyone,” I said. “Did they tell you where they were going to go after they killed you?”

  “Roger’s still out there, isn’t he?” Halsey said.

  “He’s on the loose for now,” I said, “but we’ll get him.”

  “I think their original plan was to kill the four of us, drive home to Texas, and go back to living their lives,” he said. “But once they found out that you knew who they were, they knew they could never go back. At one point Roger said to me, ‘Tomorrow this time me and Aggie will be sitting on a beach in Mexico and having a pitcher of sangria, while some coroner is yanking out your black heart and tossing it on a scale.’ It was pretty graphic. You don’t forget something like that.”

  “He didn’t say which beach in Mexico, did he?” I asked.

  Halsey smiled. “No. And I had a lot on my mind, so I didn’t ask.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us that will help us track down Roger Dingle?” I said.

  “I watched his home movies,” Halsey said. “It’s pretty clear who he was. A good husband, a loving father, just an all-around nice guy. But the day his daughter was murdered that man died with her. Now he’s obsessed with her memory and the need to punish the people responsible for her death.”

  “He could come back,” Big Jim said. “Mike, I think you should give him police protection.”

  “And I think you should mind your own business,” I said. I turned to Halsey. “My father is not authorized to make the offer, but if you want, I can get you police protection.”

  “There’s a strapping young cop standing outside of Victor’s room,” Halsey said. “I wouldn’t mind having him tuck me in every night.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We’re the police department, not a dating service.”

  “In that case, I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer. So, tell me… what’s going to happen to Joy Lee’s mother?”

  “It’s up to a jury,” I said. “For now, she’s in jail.”

  “Can I visit her?” Halsey said.

  “Visit her?” Big Jim said. Apparently he decided he had minded his own business long enough. “The woman tried to kill you. Why in God’s name would you want to visit her?”

  I knew why. Terry knew why too, and I could see by the look on his face that he wasn’t happy about it.

  “Halsey’s a director,” Terry said to Jim. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a movie in all of this.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  We were back in the office by 3, and on Kilcullen’s carpet at 3:01

  “There’s a press conference in an hour,” he said. “The Mayor would like you to be there.”

  “Fuck the Mayor,” I said.

  “Jesus, Lomax, I would expect something like that from your partner,” Kilcullen said.

  “He beat me to it,” Terry said. “But for the record, fuck the Mayor from me too.”

  “The press is going to have questions,” Kilcullen said. “Who better to handle them than you guys?”

  “I’ll bet they’ll have questions,” I said. “Like where’s Roger Dingle? How did you manage to let him get away? Who’s this civilian Victor Shea who you recruited to help you flush out the killers, and then you let botch up the arrest and apprehension? Now Detective, can we take your picture please? Just hop up on this cross, and keep your legs together, because we only have three nails.”

  “You think the press is going to come after you?” Kilcullen said.

  “We only caught one out of two bad guys,” I said. “And you don’t get kudos for batting five hundred when you let a mass murderer get away.”

  “But the one you caught was the Hollywood Bloodsucker.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “The wife. Mrs. Dingle. She was the one who did the actual bleeding. Mel Berger in the Mayor’s Office thinks we should paint her as the real killer, the actual bloodsucker. That makes the husband who got away seem more like an accomplice. Less of a threat that he’s out there.”

  “Mel Berger in the Mayor’s Office came up with that?” I said. />
  “Yeah.”

  “In that case, I would like to amend my previous response and say fuck Mel Berger.”

  Kilcullen turned to Terry for help. “Biggs, do you want to tell me what got into your partner?”

  “I think it’s what almost got into him,” Terry said. “He came this close to taking a .45 slug to the frontal lobe. It could be a little post-traumatic stress.”

  “Well that would explain a lot.”

  “I’m not finished,” Terry said. “Or it could just be that he’s fed up with your nonstop political bullshit, and you finally pushed him over the edge.”

  “I’m going with the PTSD,” Kilcullen said. “Mike, why don’t you set something up with one of the department shrinks? Take some time off if you need it.”

  “I don’t need time off,” I said. “Strike that. I do. It’s Friday afternoon, and I plan on driving to Santa Barbara with Diana for the weekend. No cell phone. No pager. No contact till Monday morning. But I’m not suffering from PTSD.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  I hadn’t realized I had a problem until I exploded at my boss. But once the powder keg blew, I was pretty sure I knew what set it off. “I think it might be a touch of Stockholm syndrome,” I said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I feel more compassion for the killers than I do for the victims. Aggie and Roger Dingle couldn’t have children of their own. Talk about identifying. Joanie and I had the same problem. But they were lucky. They got to adopt a little Chinese girl. And they invested everything they had in her. Terry and I saw the video they played for their victims. They loved that kid. And then she got mixed up with a bunch of Hollywood scumbags who put her in harm’s way, and she got her throat slit. The last thing those two people heard from their daughter was a message she left on their answering machine. She ran out of blood and air trying to tell them how much she loved them and how sorry she was for letting them down.”

  I realized I was shouting and I stopped. I took a long, slow breath and dropped my voice back down to a civilized level. “So don’t expect me to stand up at a press conference and demonize Aggie and Roger Dingle for avenging Joy Lee’s death. Because if it was one of your daughters, Brendan, or one of Terry’s daughters, you both know what you’d be doing. You’d kill the bastards who killed your little girl, and you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

  Kilcullen got up from his desk and walked to the door. “Stay here,” he said and left. Terry and I sat there, not talking. A few minutes later, Kilcullen came back with three cups of black coffee.

  “It must really suck for you guys to have a boss who’s a recovering alcoholic,” he said. “There was a time when I would have been able to open my desk drawer and pull out a bottle of Irish whiskey. But I’m afraid the best I can do at this stage of my life is a cup of this highly suspect warm brown beverage that we brew.”

  He handed us each a cup.

  “I’d like to propose a toast to two of the smartest, most dedicated cops I’ve ever had the honor of working with.” He looked squarely at Terry. “And one of the least funny. Job well done, boys. Job well done.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Kilcullen went to the press conference on his own. He got back to the office just as I was getting ready to leave for

  the weekend.

  “Santa Barbara is a good choice,” he said. “There are some beautiful bed-and-breakfasts right on the beach. After what you’ve been through this week, the sun, the sea, and the sand will do you a world of good. They have a way of recharging your battery and restoring your soul. You got a place all picked out?”

  I nodded.

  “Sally and I have a favorite place down there,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the same one.”

  He was fishing. But I wasn’t biting. It was none of his business where I was going for the weekend.

  “It’s called Country Inn By The Sea,” he said.

  “It sounds perfect,” I said. Then I winked.

  He winked back, completely convinced that his keen detective mind had psyched out the exact spot where I was going to find my serenity and spirituality.

  Five hours later Diana and I checked into the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas.

  The sand, the surf, and breakfast at sunrise might work for Brendan and Sally Kilcullen, but Diana and I needed noise, music, craps, blackjack, glitz, booze, 24-hour room service, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

  We left our cell phones in LA and never looked at a newspaper or turned on the television. And no place helps you keep the outside world out like Vegas. By the end of the weekend my battery was recharged, my soul was restored, and my bank account was shy three thousand bucks. Worth every penny of it.

  Monday morning Kilcullen hit Terry and me with the bad news.

  “We got a call from the Mexicans,” he said. “Roger Dingle is dead. He checked into a fleabag hotel Thursday night. Ate his gun on Sunday.”

  “I guess this story was never going to have a happy ending,” Terry said.

  “The Mayor would disagree with you on that,” Kilcullen said.

  “A cop blowing his brains out is never a happy ending,” I said. “Even a cop that’s gone sour.”

  “I never understood why cops have only one way of committing suicide,” Terry said. “It’s such a cliché. The department should come up with a few interesting alternatives and start teaching them in police academy.”

  “Somebody’s got to go and tell Dingle’s widow that her husband won’t be joining her,” Kilcullen said.

  “We’ll tell her,” I said.

  “It doesn’t have to be you.”

  “Yes it does,” I said.

  “It’s all yours. Then get back here and start on something new,” Kilcullen said. “You look rested. You must have had a good weekend.”

  I nodded. “A great weekend.”

  “What did I tell you?” he said patting me on the back. “Mother Nature works wonders.”

  So does 48 hours of sleaze.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Once he ditched the car in San Ysidro, Roger Dingle could have walked across the border to Tijuana in a few minutes. But then he’d be in Mexico on foot. He needed wheels.

  The traffic was moving slow enough to catch a ride, but Roger didn’t want just anyone who would drive him over and drop him off. He needed a traveling companion. It took forty minutes before the good ole boy in the Dodge Ram 350 showed up.

  There’s my ticket, Roger thought, sticking out his thumb.

  “Arvin,” the guy said as Roger hopped in the cab. “Arvin Skett.”

  “Wyatt,” Roger said.

  “Like Wyatt Earp,” Skett said. “But I’m betting you ain’t no frontier marshal.”

  “Try unemployed construction worker,” Roger said.

  “You’re traveling light,” Arvin said. “I guess you’re not staying long enough to need a change of underwear.”

  “I’m lucky I got pants on,” Roger said. “I had a fight with my old lady and stormed out of the house. Took the Greyhound down from LA to San Ysidro. I got some cash and a credit card, so I figure I can buy whatever I need down here.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you and the little woman fight about?”

  “Same old shit. Me not working, her not spreading her legs.”

  “I feel your pain, bro,” Arvin said. “But you’re in luck. You came to the leg-spreading capital of the world, and ole Arvin Skett will be your tour guide.”

  “You know your way around?”

  “Wyatt, you know how some people go to church? This is my church. Once a month on a Thursday night, I drive down here from SD for tacos, tequila, and sweet Mexican pussy. You like ’em young?”

  Roger laughed. “I’m fifty-three years old. These days they’re all young.”

  “No, I mean like fifteen, fourteen, even twelve. You ever fuck a twelve-year-old?”

  Roger put his hand to his jacket pocket and pressed it hard against the
gun. He mustered up a smile. “I don’t believe I ever fucked a twelve-year-old. Even when I was twelve.”

  “That’s a good one,” Arvin said. “Me, I wouldn’t spend a dime to hump one of those fat old Mexican whores. They got pussies that hang down off ’em like saddlebags. If you want, we can team up.”

  The invitation had come faster than Roger had hoped for. He took it slow, careful not to pounce on it. “Team up?” Roger said. “Like how?”

  “Like we get a couple of el cheapo rooms at the Roach Motel, grab some food, some tequila, and then I’ll take you to Bonita’s. She specializes in young Mexican poonanny. Sweet, tight, and for a few extra pesos, shaved. How about it, Wyatt? You game?”

  Sitting behind the wheel, Arvin looked to be about Roger’s height. He was a little thinner, a little younger, but he had the same salt-and-pepper hair. His face didn’t look a lot like Roger’s, but that was no problem. Arvin wasn’t going to have much of a face left to identify.

  “I don’t know,” Roger said. “It’s damn white of you to ask, but I don’t want to cramp your style.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Arvin said. “I drive a Budget Rent-a-Car van at the San Diego airport. I deal with hundreds of total strangers every day. I sized you up when you were standing on the road with your thumb out, and I said to myself, there is one straight shooter. Otherwise, I would never have picked you up. Nothing’s more fun than Thursday night in TJ with Arvin Skett. Except for Friday and Saturday. Come Sunday, I’ll drive you back to the bus terminal in San Ysidro, or you can hop a ride with me to SD. What do you say?”

  “Arvin, this is my lucky day,” Roger said. “I couldn’t have gotten a better ride if I prayed for it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Arvin was in a drunken stupor when Roger blew his head off with the .45. He debated whether or not to leave a suicide note. If he were actually killing himself he wouldn’t have bothered. But he figured a note would give the scene that much more authenticity and make it easy on the Mexican cops to determine cause of death.

  He kept it short. I’m sorry. Please ship my body back to Katy, TX. Gracias.