The picture to the immediate left of Colin also had a circle and slash scrawled across his face. Victim number one, Zachary Stone. He had been as easy to seduce as Colin. Not surprising, he was another horn dog asshole.
Stone was a lawyer.
The lawyer.
The cocksucker who orchestrated the Great Escape.
That’s why he had to die first.
Stone lived in Newport Beach. He had a fancy suite of offices, drove a Silver Cloud convertible, wore three-thousand-dollar suits, got two-hundred-dollar haircuts, lived on the beach in an eight-million-dollar home and dated Southern California’s most beautiful woman. He was slick, handsome and rich with the three most important ingredients for success: intelligence, charisma and ambition.
Stone had a powerful voice and an infectious personality that won over clients, jurors and judges; it was a wonderful asset for a criminal defense attorney who represented the rich, the very rich and ultra rich of Orange County from charges of bribery, fraud, embezzlement, assault, rape or murder. He’d even stoop to a DUI defense if the client was wealthy enough.
Alice had called his office, told the assistant she was referred by her close family friend, the Governor, and she’d like an appointment. She explained that she and her husband had been accused of stealing eighty million dollars from his investors and she needed a good lawyer. She wanted to be the last appointment of the day, so she asked if he could see her at 6:00 p.m. The assistant checked and told her that would be fine.
Alice dressed to kill, in red, of course. She watched his eyes as she walked into the office. They flicked from her blonde hair, to her face, to her tits, to her legs, to her Manolo Blahnik’s then back to her tits. She had him.
He indicated for her to sit on the couch, asked if her husband would be joining them. She said, no, the son of a bitch had fled the country. She was scared, confused and now alone. Would he help her?
Stone sat across from her, took her hands in his and said, “Absolutely, you can count on me.”
She spun a sad story, a modified version of the ponzi scam Bernie Madoff used to rip off billions. In Alice’s version she was the innocent victim of an evil husband who bilked millions and left her holding the bag.
She touched his arm, as she told her story, then a leg, for emphasis. Finally she started crying which prompted an embrace from Stone. She hugged him tightly, making sure he got a chest load of her tits and a nose full of her Chanel.
“For the first time in a long time,” she said as they separated, “I feel that someone finally cares about me.” She looked deeply, gratefully into his eyes then suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. It was practically platonic. Closed mouth, tender, sweet, but promising oh so much more. “I’m sorry,” she said pulling back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Stone’s face was flushed, and she was sure blood rushed to another part of his body as well. “It’s all right,” he said. “I understand. These are stressful times for you. Look, there’s a wonderful restaurant just down the street, Gerard’s. You know it?”
She did. When she researched Zachary Stone, the L.A. Times interview was actually conducted from what the interviewer described as Stone’s favorite restaurant, Gerard’s. The food was great, Stone said, but what he liked most was it was walking distance from his office. She was hoping he’d ask her to dinner there. “Yes,” she said. “They make a wicked martini.”
“I’d love to buy you that martini, and dinner. We can talk some more about the case. Get to know each other a little better,” he said, serving up a sexual innuendo.
Her eyes met his, message received. “That would be wonderful.”
“I need some time to finish up here. Can you meet me there in say, an hour?”
She gave him her most promising smile. “See you then.”
Walking distance. Gerard’s was just a quarter of a mile from Stone’s office. You simply walk down West Balboa Boulevard, turn right on 41st then cut through the alley which brings you to River Avenue and the restaurant.
And that’s where Alice was waiting, hidden in the alley. When she saw Stone cross 41st, she crouched behind a dumpster, the Colt .25 in her right hand. Her ears did the work now. Just like her dad taught her when they went deer hunting. You’ll hear them first, in the brush. A few steps, nibble, a few more steps.
At first she just heard the muted sounds of the city: the hum of traffic, the beeping of a truck backing up somewhere, a far off siren. Then she heard his footsteps. The crisp click of an expensive leather heel, then the click of another. The footfalls grew louder, the gait even, confident.
Then Stone passed the dumpster. Alice stepped out, said, “Zachary.”
He stopped, turned, surprised to see her. “Hi.”
She raised the Colt and shot him in the face.
POP.
The bullet went through his forehead, plowed through his frontal lobe, tumbled a bit taking out the septum pellucidum, thalmus and hypothalamus before coming to rest in the middle of his spinal cord. Catastrophic injuries and death was instantaneous. He hit the ground as a corpse.
Alice stood there, waiting to see if she’d feel any regret, any remorse. She’d killed before: birds, deer, an elk on a Colorado vacation when she was twelve. But this was her first human being.
Nope, she felt fine. Better than fine, actually, she felt great. Endorphins were released and did a waltz with the adrenaline coursing through her veins. It felt better than sex.
She slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, searched the alley for the spent cartridge, found it and slipped it in her pocket. Next she bent over the body, and slipped the wallet out of his Armani jacket. It was filled with hundreds, eleven of them, plus three twenties, a five and two ones. Good, she thought. She took eight of the hundreds; she needed some working capital, but left enough cash in the wallet so cops wouldn’t think it was a robbery. He had all the major credit cards and her eyes settled on his Platinum American Express card. She slipped it out, not to use it, but as a souvenir, something to remember him by. Then she plucked a one dollar bill out of the wallet, and stuffed it into his right hand.
These murders were going to be Alice’s legacy. And she wanted the story to be a colorful one. So she planned to leave a few subtle clues along the way to be deciphered later, clever nuggets that in hindsight would let everyone know how carefully she planned her revenge.
But she had to be careful. Because Alice wasn’t afraid of getting caught, she was afraid of getting caught too soon. She needed time to kill all four.
Back in her apartment, Alice stared at the picture of Zachary Stone, at the circle and slash across his face. Then at Colin Wood’s photo also marred with the red circle and slash.
Two down and two to go.
Her eyes drifted to the next picture, an old high school yearbook picture of a handsome blonde man in a Speedo. He had a lean, muscled body and an easy smile. Adam Devlin.
She had a wild crush on him in high school. Everyone knew because she’d stare at him like a lovesick puppy whenever she saw him. Adam was just nice enough to her to give her hope. Just nice enough to trick her into going over to Colin’s house that night eleven years ago. That horrible night that changed everything.
Alice had no trouble locating Adam. He was all over the Internet; pictures of him at the Super Bowl, the World Series, the NBA Finals and Wimbledon. There was even a picture of Adam in front of his office building in Santa Monica.
That’s where she planned to meet him. That’s where she planned to kill him.
SEVEN
“Oh, I absolutely recognize him now,” Syd said, staring down at Colin Wood’s body. Ryan and Liz stood next to her in the morgue examination room. “He did this great guest shot on Grey’s Anatomy. Gave head to Ellen Pompeo in a Starbuck’s bathroom.”
“Did he take his shirt off in the episode?” Liz asked.
“Actually, yes.”
“Did he have this 2 carved into it?”
“Not so much.”
“Then let’s stay focused, shall we?”
“I’ve got Higgins searching VICAP for any recent victims with numbers carved on their corpses,” Ryan said. “I know we’ve got no open LAPD files that match. You determine the cause of death?”
“There are two gunshot entrance wounds beneath the scrotum, the bullets ripped through just about every internal organ; one was imbedded in his spinal cord, the other in his heart. Death was probably instantaneous. The slugs were small, looked like .25’s. I sent them to Forensics.”
Ryan and Syd exchanged a confused look, tried to picture the murder. Ryan asked, “Did you find any evidence of fabric in the wounds?”
Liz smiled, the game was on. “No. The gun was pressed against bare skin.”
“Bare skin,” Syd said, the possibilities swirling in her brain. Something stuck. She asked, “Did you autopsy the penis?”
“Yes,” Liz said, thinking, she’s got it.
Realization dawned on Ryan. “Did you find any seminal fluid?”
“The vans deferens was swimming in it.” Liz said, thinking, they made a pretty good
team.
“She was blowing him,” Ryan said, the picture now crystal clear.
“Wow,” Syd said. “This chick has got some serious cohones of her own.”
“Any chance of DNA on the penis?” Ryan asked.
Liz shook her head. “Just his. I found traces of an antiseptic on the skin. Looks like she wiped it down before cutting it off.”
“She must’ve really hated this dude,” Syd said. “I mean, talk about premeditated. She picks him up in a bar, seduces him in his car, gives him head before killing him, takes out a scalpel, gloves and antiseptic and goes to work. And then taunts us with a 2 carved into his chest.”
Ryan shook his head. “Something’s not making sense. If she hated him enough to rearrange his body parts, wouldn’t he have recognized her? Known her?”
“You thinking Colin’s girlfriend, Abigail?” Syd asked.
“An obvious place to start, but maybe too obvious.”
Liz said, “She could just be a freak who hates men. Then the 2 would make more sense. She’s decided to rid the world of men, one cock at a time and she’s keeping count.”
Ryan considered. “Makes more sense than someone killing all her old boyfriends, but at this point, anything’s possible. I just hope we find victim number one before there is a victim number three.” Ryan started for the door, Syd on his tail.
“Hey, Ryan,” Liz called after him. “One more thing.”
Ryan turned. “Anything, Liz.”
“Can I borrow a million bucks?”
“Oh, shit, you heard.”
“Everyone’s heard, Ryan. Congratulations, baby. But be careful, you’re about to have a whole bunch of new best friends.”
The L.A. County Morgue is on Mission Road near downtown L.A., about a fifteen- minute drive from Ryan and Syd’s Hollywood office. They were still in Ryan’s Mustang; they hadn’t had a chance to go the station and switch to their LAPD issued Crown Vic. But they were headed there now.
“You ever hate a guy enough to want to cut his dick off?” Ryan asked.
“Yes,” Syd said before she could stop herself. Syd’s stepfather wasn’t the only one to have abused her. There were scores of men.
But Syd wasn’t ready to tell Ryan about that part of her life, yet.
If ever.
“Whose dick would you have cut off? Have you mentioned him?”
“No,” Syd said, then she fashioned a lie. “He was just some creep from high school; he pretended to like me just to win a bet with some friends. Broke my heart.”
“Asshole.”
“Do me a favor, Ryan. Don’t ever break my heart.”
Ryan answered without thinking about it. “I won’t, I promise.”
Four words. I won’t, I promise. Ryan said them because it’s the kind of thing you say when you’re really just telling someone what they want to hear.
Syd heard an oath.
They would both remember those four words for a long time.
EIGHT
“Something’s up,” Ryan said as they pulled up to the Hollywood Station. News vans clogged the street and a pack of cameras and reporters blocked the sidewalk.
“Maybe the mayor’s inside,” Syd said, then noticed the hungry look in the reporter’s eyes. “Or the governor.” They parked in the lot, climbed out of the car. Ryan carried Colin Wood’s laptop, Syd had Wood’s check and appointment books. They headed for the back door.
“That’s him,” one of the reporters called, pointing. “Hey, Ryan!” she started jogging toward Ryan and the others followed, also calling out to him.
“This can’t be good,” Ryan muttered as they were surrounded. Ryan knew most of the reporters; he’d given many interviews over the years.
The pretty blonde from CBS asked, “How’s it feel to be the richest cop in L.A.?”
The redhead from ABC, “The richest cop in the world!”
NBC’s brunette, a former beauty pageant winner who Ryan dated briefly asked, “We heard you won fifty million dollars.”
FOX’s ponytail, “I heard a hundred million.”
Syd watched the chaos, amused as Ryan held up his hands. “Hold on, everyone. Quiet, please!”
Reluctantly, they all shut up. Ryan’s eyes flicked from one reporter to another, from one camera to another, all staring at him, expectantly. He milked the moment then said, “No comment,” and plowed through the cameras.
“What about the murder, this morning?” NBC’s brunette asked. “What can you tell us?”
Ryan turned back to the pack. “Nothing yet, we’re still awaiting notification of next of kin.”
“The bartender said he was an actor.”
“In this town, isn’t everyone?”
“One last question,” ABC’s redhead called out. “Are you married?”
“Only to my work,” Ryan said. Then he swiped his ID card in the reader, threw open the back door and disappeared inside, Syd in his wake. He slammed the door behind them. “Fuck, how’d they find out about the lottery?”
“Good news travels fast.”
Ryan wasn’t so sure it was good news.
“Think about it,” Syd said as they headed for the Homicide bullpen. “A few hours ago a handful of cops at the crime scene heard you won the lottery. So one cop tips someone in the media, whose assistant texts her friend at another station and in a cyber second everyone knows.”
“Cop wins money. BFD. Aren’t there more important stories to cover?”
“You don’t get it, do you? Everybody dreams of hitting the jackpot. Everybody. And whenever someone hits the Lotto for twenty or thirty or forty-six million dollars, the winners are paraded on the TODAY show, profiled in US Weekly, and trotted out in front of an eager public. It’s wish fulfillment, Ryan. People want to share your joy.”
Ryan wasn’t feeling too joyful. He was conflicted. Not only about whether he should take the money, but also whether he should he tell Syd the truth.
Syd, meanwhile, had worries of her own. “I’m not sure I liked the way they were looking at you.”
“Who?”
“Those female reporters. Usually we’re just information sources; they look at us for a story. But those prom queens with microphones were eyeing you for dinner. You just got a lot better looking, Ryan.”
“I do feel taller.”
Syd cupped her hand over his crotch. “And this definitely feels bigger.”
Ryan laughed as Syd dropped her hand and they turned into the bullpen. It was 10:00 a.m., rush hour in a homicide bureau, because even though most of the detectives spent the day on the streets conducting investigations, they started and ended each day in the bullpen. And almost every one of the sixteen desks was occupied. A hum of busy conversation filled the air, punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter. But as Ryan and Syd crossed to their desks, the conversation slowly died and then the room was qu
iet, all eyes on Detective Ryan Magee.
“What?” he asked.
Suddenly everyone started clapping and cheering. Ryan was popular, but now he was forty-seven million times more popular. These men and women were Ryan’s friends, and they were genuinely happy for him. And that just made Ryan feel even worse. He realized that if he said, the ticket isn’t mine, give the money to someone else, he’d be letting them down.
“Okay, okay, thank you,” he said, holding his hands up. “But tell me you don’t just love me for my money.”
That got a laugh, and after a spattering of “congratulations,” everyone got back to work.
Syd checked her email. “We got a preliminary report from VICAP on the amputated penis.” Her voice trailed off as she read. “Jeez, Louise, there are a lot of freaks out there who like to slice and dice. Ryan, there are like, fifty cases going back over twenty-five years.”
“What’s the most recent?”
Syd checked. “Nine months ago in Miami.” Syd quickly scanned the summary. “Victim was a Columbian drug runner; they caught the killer, a shooter from a rival gang trying to send a message.”
“Can’t imagine that’s related; print them all out and we’ll take a look.” Ryan picked up his phone, called Ramirez at SID. “Hey, Tony, it’s Ryan.”
“Great, I’m glad you called.”
Ryan had heard that excited tone in Ramirez’s voice before, usually before Ramirez dropped a bomb that broke a case wide open. Ryan could feel his pulse quicken. “Talk to me, Tony.”
“You know how much you love my mother’s albondigas?”
“The world’s best meatballs, absolutely,” Ryan said, confused.
“Well, I’ve put together a business plan for a national franchise, Maribel’s Meatballs. We’ll just have restaurants, to start; but I’ve got plans for canned and frozen food, cookbooks, and a line of Mexican spices. And all we need is a little seed money, say two hundred thousand dollars.”
In Cold Blonde Page 4
