“Did the blonde and the victim know each other?” Syd asked.
“The bartender wasn’t sure. When she came in, everyone noticed her. Even the ladies; she was that hot. The bartender saw her look around for a beat then head in Mr. Wood’s direction. But she was alone and he was the only guy without a girl at that point.”
“So she might have been looking for any single guy or him specifically.”
“Exactly,” Ryan said.
“Did she have a drink, any chance for a fingerprint?”
Ryan shook his head. “She didn’t order anything. How about you, any luck at the 7-Eleven?”
A mischievous smile tugged her lips. “No security camera aimed in this direction. But as for luck…” Syd handed him the piece of paper. “Call this number.”
“Forty-seven million dollars!” Ryan said into the cell phone after reciting the serial number on the Lotto ticket.
“That’s right, sir,” the Lotto operator told him. “But you chose cash value, so after taxes you’ll only net about thirty-four million.”
“Only…” Ryan laughed. A few cops still working the crime scene began to gather as word spread. “So how do I get the money?”
“Just come down to the office, answer a few questions to verify it’s your ticket, and we’ll issue a check.”
Warning bells went off in Ryan’s head. “What do you mean verify it’s mine?”
“Just answer a couple of questions. Where you bought the ticket, was it a quick pick or did you choose the numbers? We often check the store’s video tape to see you buying it, but with a ticket this old, I doubt there would be a tape.”
“Probably not,” Ryan said, praying there wouldn’t be.
“And like I told your friend, you need to hurry. This ticket expires on Thursday. It’s only good for one hundred and eighty days after the drawing so you’ve only got two days left. After close of business Thursday, that’s 6:00 p.m., it’ll be worthless.”
“Thursday, got it,” Ryan said.
In point of fact, Ryan hadn’t bought the ticket at all. Someone else did, a guy wearing grease-stained coveralls. He was in front of Ryan at the 7-Eleven; bought a six-pack of Bud light, a beef jerky and a pack of Marlboros. When he got his change, he had a buck left so he bought a Lotto ticket. He asked for a quick pick, cash value ticket, got it and left.
Ryan remembered because he was late for a court hearing but desperately needed some Rolaids for an excruciating attack of heartburn. The counterman and the guy in the coveralls took forever, talking about the Lakers, the Dodgers and even the fucking Angels while a volcano burbled in Ryan’s stomach.
Finally, after the guy left, Ryan bought the antacids and headed out the door. He saw the guy in overalls climb into a tow truck. Ryan also noticed a Lotto ticket fluttering on the ground. He picked it up as the guy started his tow truck. Ryan thought about calling out to him, telling him he dropped his Lotto ticket, but Ryan was so annoyed that the jerk had taken so long at the counter that he just let him drive off.
Ryan had no idea who he was, didn’t bother looking at the license plate, so had no way of tracking him down. And why would he bother? What were the odds a lottery ticket was actually worth anything? A hundred million to one odds, more? Fuck it, Ryan thought as he climbed into his Mustang. He shoved the ticket in his glove box and forgot about it.
Now the goddamn thing was worth millions and Ryan wasn’t sure what he should do. File it under finders/keepers and claim the prize, or be honest and try and track down the guy in overalls. He needed time to think. “Look,” he said to the Lotto lady, “I’m a police officer in the middle of a murder investigation. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to stop by.”
“Just get here by close of business Thursday or you can kiss your millions goodbye. Oh, and have you signed the ticket?”
“No.”
“Nobody does. But do it, right now. That way no one can steal it from you.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, pulling out his pen, signing the back of the ticket. “Done.”
“Great. Be sure to call and let us know when you’re coming in. I’m sure some of the press will want to cover it. And be sure to keep the ticket someplace safe. Be a shame if you lost it.”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said. “I won’t lose it. Thank you.” Ryan hung up as Lieutenant Hanrahan and a couple of uniforms entered the bar.
“Is it true?” Hanrahan asked. “You just won the Lotto?”
“He sure did, Chief,” Syd said. “Forty-seven million cash dollars!”
“Actually, just thirty-four million after taxes,” Ryan said.
“Hot damn!” Hanrahan said, high fiving a less than enthusiastic Ryan. “You going to clear this case for me before you quit?”
“I’m not going to quit.”
“You’re rich, Ryan. Why would you want to be a cop?”
“I love being a cop, Lieutenant. I don’t give a shit about the money.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true.”
Hanrahan reached out and grabbed the ticket. “Then give me it me.”
Ryan grabbed it back. “No fucking way!”
“You see,” Hanrahan said, laughing. “Money changes everything, take my word for it. Everything.” A buzz rippled through the assembled cops agreeing with Hanrahan.
“Well, I don’t have the money yet,” Ryan said, carefully folding the Lotto ticket in half and slipping it into his wallet. “But I do have a murder to solve. Syd, you have the victim’s address?”
She held up the paper Ramirez gave her. “He lives a couple of miles away, on Crescent.”
“Let’s go,” Ryan said, heading for the door.
“There’s a Bentley dealership on your way, Ryan,” Hanrahan called after him. “You should stop by.”
Ryan held up his hand, flipped Hanrahan the bird and walked out the door.
FIVE
“I thought you’d be happier.”
“It’s kind of hard to wrap your head around,” Ryan said. “I mean, all that money…”
They were driving south on Sunset in Ryan’s Mustang. The sun was up, and so was the temperature. They drove with the top down but the heater was off.
Syd turned to Ryan. “You’ve just been handed the keys to the kingdom. Money means freedom. You can do anything you want. Be anything you want. Go anywhere you want. Live anywhere, drive anything, eat anything, fuck anything… ”
“I like fucking you.”
“Good answer. You definitely deserve the money.”
Ryan laughed. He wanted to tell Syd about the Lotto ticket. How he got it, his guilt, his confusion. But something held him back. What? He tried to put his finger on it. Was he ashamed that he lied to her when he told her he’d bought it? Was he afraid she’d be disappointed in him? Judge him? Would she stop trusting him? Or was he afraid she would tell him he shouldn’t keep the ticket, that he had to be honest with the Lotto people and help them find the righteous winner?
Well, all of them actually. And he was very confused about his relationship with her in the first place. He’d only known her for eight weeks. Knew he was crazy about her. But was it lust or love?
Syd told him she loved him a week after they slept together. And she had said it practically every day since then. And the subtle plea was there; tell me you love me, too.
Then, just a week ago, walking out of a movie, hand in hand, in a great mood after a Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy, Ryan said it. “I love you, Syd.” Just like that. It popped out spontaneously.
But was it really heartfelt or the result of Syd’s subtle pressure? Or was it just the afterglow of the stupid movie?
Ryan hadn’t loved anyone since Anne, hadn’t really committed himself since Anne, and Lord knows how badly that turned out. Did he really want to risk it again?
Fuck, he thought. Life was so simple when he woke up this morning. How’d it get so confusing so fast?
“There,” Syd said, pointing. “That’s his house on the le
ft.”
Colin Wood lived in a small, one story Spanish style stucco. Two small palm trees sprouted out of a well-tended lawn. Ryan picked the morning paper up off the sidewalk, carried it to the front door. They could hear noise inside, a TV. Ryan rang the bell.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” a male voice called. The door was pulled open and revealed a barefoot man wearing a USC tee shirt and gym shorts. He was a little goofy looking, Ryan thought, and he looked familiar. Tall, somewhere between six foot two or three, he was rail thin, blonde but balding, with a horse face. He looked like someone out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Then Ryan realized, he was a character actor. Ryan had seen him on TV.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
Ryan handed him the newspaper, then badged him. “I’m Detective Magee, this is Detective Curtis. May we come in?”
“Sure,” the man said warily, stepping aside. “What’s this about?”
“Colin Wood,” Ryan said. “Is he a friend of yours?”
The man nodded. “We’re roommates.” Then it dawned on him. “Oh, my God, something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“He’s been the victim of a crime. A murder.” Ryan watched the man carefully looking for a sign of genuine surprise. At this point, everyone was a suspect.
The reaction had two parts. The first was concern about Colin being involved in a crime, then the word, murder, settled in and shock filled the long face. “He’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Who? Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Syd said. “Could we ask you some questions, Mr…”
“Dodd. Sorry, I’m Reggie Dodd.” He shook their hands, led them into the kitchen. The house was cluttered and looked like two men lived it in, two men with an aversion to cleaning up.
“You’re an actor, aren’t you?” Ryan asked. “You look familiar.”
Dodd nodded. “That’s how Colin and I met, on a movie.”
“He was an actor, too?” Syd asked.
“Yeah.” Dodd dug something out of a pile on the kitchen counter and handed it Syd. It was what was called a Head Shot, a picture of Colin Wood on the front and a list of his credits on the back. “We did that George Clooney picture last year. I was just splitting from my wife, Colin’s girlfriend had just moved out, so he asked if I needed a place to crash. I’ve been here about six months.”
Ryan studied the picture, recognized the face. He might have recognized him in the car, but all he was focused on then was the penis in his mouth.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Dodd asked.
Hanrahan had instructed everyone to keep the amputated appendage a secret, not so much as a courtesy to the victim, but holding back key evidence often helps separate real suspects from the nut jobs.
“He was found dead in his car.”
“Where?”
“Outside a nightclub, the Havoc parking lot.”
“Colin loved that place,” Dodd said. “We both did. Great place to meet chicks.” Dodd suddenly remembered Syd. “Sorry, I mean women. Meet women.”
Syd smiled. “Chicks works, don’t sweat it. You mentioned Colin broke up with a girlfriend. Tell us about her.”
“Abby, Abigail something or other; I don’t remember her last name. I only met her once, when she stopped by to pick up some stuff she’d left behind.”
“Pretty girl?” Ryan asked.
“Beautiful. Blonde, great body. She’s a wannabe actress. Colin said it was the perfect job for her; she’s a total drama queen.”
Syd leaned forward. “So she had a temper.”
“Did she ever. Colin said she caught him cheating on her and went ballistic.”
“She got violent?”
“Colin said she practically trashed the place. Hit him in the head with a frying pan.” Then it dawned on him. “Wait, you don’t think Abby did this?”
“Just trying to narrow down the suspect list,” Ryan said. “What about other people who might have wanted to hurt him; were there other women, maybe someone with a grudge?”
“There were plenty of other women, Colin was a total slut and proud of it. But lately they’ve all been happy hookups, if you know what I mean. He never mentioned any trouble.”
Syd asked, “No threatening phone calls, letters, anything like that?”
“Not that I know of; Colin was a great guy. Everybody loved him.”
“Not quite everybody,” Ryan said. “Let me ask you something, did Colin have an American Express card?”
“Sure, a Platinum card. He loved to flash it, thought it impressed his dates.”
“Is it here?” Syd asked. “Or had he mentioned losing it recently?”
“No, we went out to Flemings for dinner the other night and Colin used it to pay the check. I mean, I think I remember him putting it back in his wallet. Why, is it missing?”
“Yes,” Ryan said. “Look, we need to go through Colin’s things: computer, phone book, bills. We could get a warrant, but…”
“No, no problem. It’s all right here.”
“And next of kin,” Syd said. “Who should we notify?”
“His mom’s dead, but his dad is still alive, lives in Orange County.”
Syd asked, “Do you have his number?”
Dodd shook his head. “But it’ll be on his cell. Did you find that?”
“It was in the car,” Syd said.
“He kept everything on his iPhone,” Dodd said. “But he’s got a phone book, too; I’ll get it.” Dodd got up to fetch it. Ryan’s phone rang.
“Ryan.”
“The plot thickens,” Liz said from her examining room. “I’m looking down at the remains of Colin Wood, and you’ll never guess what I found when I took his shirt off.”
“Another penis?”
Liz snorted a laugh. “Funny. No, I found something carved into his chest. The number 2. My guess, it was probably the same blade that Benihana’d his penis.”
Syd saw the shock on Ryan’s face. “What? What is it?”
“The number 2 was carved into Colin Wood’s chest,” Ryan said checking to make sure Dodd was out of earshot.
“No shit,” Syd said, the implication clear. “Which means the killer’s done it before.”
“And will probably do it again,” Ryan said.
Syd’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer, Ryan. How cool is that!”
SIX
She stood naked in the shower. The make-up washed off. The nail and toe polish removed. The green contacts taken out. The Lady in Red was stripped bare, restored to her natural state.
Her name was Alice Waterman. She was pretty in a fresh-scrubbed, studious sort of way. But Alice never thought of herself as pretty. She thought of herself as smart. It had been beaten into her head ever since she was a little girl growing up in Santa Ana, California. Her brains were going to get her into a great college, good career and, one day, a solid marriage.
Her dad worked at the nearby Knotts Berry Farm theme park; he did maintenance on the thrill rides. Her mom worked at Sears in ladies apparel. A typical hard working blue collar family barely getting by, but they had a dream, a dream that one day their smart, gifted daughter would join the corporate culture as an executive and be able to live a life of privilege and luxury. And to succeed in a world run by men, her father told her she had to be able to compete with men out of the office, too. So while her friends took dance lessons, Dad taught her golf. He took her hunting; she even learned to box.
Alice wasn’t popular in high school. She was heavy; judged a little plump if you were kind, fat if you were the typical high school kid. And the extra weight hid the simple beauty of the face that would one day emerge.
She hung with the nerds, and the boys liked her because she was promiscuous. She started giving hand jobs in eighth grade, blow jobs freshman year and was sleeping with a variety of boys by her sophomore year. But she dreamt of running with the cool kids, and even though word had spread that she
was easy, there were plenty of prettier girls willing to put out. Alice was sentenced to high school Siberia and was miserable.
Alice turned off the water, pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. The bathroom was tiny and smelled of mildew. The wallpaper was peeling away and the bowl of the once-white toilet bowl was stained a disgusting yellow. The sink was cracked and the counter was barely big enough to hold her prescription bottles. She even had to open the bathroom door so she’d have room to dry herself with the coarse towel.
But it was her bathroom and hers alone. She didn’t have to share it with anyone, a definite improvement over her circumstances for the last few years. The dingy studio apartment, one of eight units above an army surplus store on Vine Street in Hollywood, smelled too, courtesy of the Thai fast food joint next door. But the apartment was hers alone. She didn’t have a roommate. She could eat whenever she wanted. She could come and go as she pleased because the door locked from the inside, not the outside.
So much better than the fucking Institute.
Her parents had visited the apartment when she first moved in a month ago, and were disgusted. Her dad offered her money to get a nicer place. But she didn’t want any more of his money. His money was their money and she wanted nothing to do with it.
Her mom had noticed the bottles of pills and Alice told her they were antidepressants prescribed at the Institute. No reason to freak her out with the truth; Stage IV breast cancer metastasized to the liver, lungs, bone and brain. The doctors told her she had six months to live, maybe a little longer with luck.
So, little girl, what did you do with the last six months of your life? Why I got even with the dirty bastards who ruined my life.
Two more men had to die. Two more souls rendered to balance the scales of justice.
Alice walked into the cramped living room/dining room/kitchen/bedroom. Her war room. Four pictures were pinned to the dingy white walls. The late Colin Wood was picture number two. She picked up a red magic marker, drew a circle around his face, then a slash through the middle.
In Cold Blonde Page 3
