by Tony Bulmer
THE SEX NET
Tony Bulmer
Copyright 2012 Tony Bulmer
THE SEX NET 01
Nude and glistening, they had tied him to the bed with piano wire. A rubber ball gag strapped tight in his mouth. The killer had sliced him good, sternum to crotch, then pulled the body cavity wide: an intestinal theatre for all to see. The wound gaped cruel and ugly. A crime scene snapper in a white plastic hot-suit leaned in for a close up; his camera strobing on auto wind—flash, flash, flash, Ramirez winced, ‘Hey get that thing out of my face.’ The CSI flipped him a furrowed look and masticated gum. Again the flashgun fired, picking out the corpse on the grizzled bed, in high contrast. Ramirez queezed: thinking about the late lunch at Larry’s Taco Canyon, as he pondered the unzipped body cavity. He thought about the no good croaker his insurance had landed him with and the Peptic ulcer eating through his stomach wall. Sucking peppermint to ease the corpse stench, He watched the crime-scene crew crawling the room. An ugly mess, thought Ramirez, the last kind of thing you wanted to look at end of shift Friday, with the Dodgers facing a World Series home game.
‘Welcome to Bel-Air.’ A heavy set detective in a blue sports coat and stained chinos sidled up alongside Ramirez, slurping noisily at the dregs of a giant soda. Ramirez gave him a sideways glance. ‘What have we got Cullen?’
We got contact is what we got. The One-eighty-seven is Ronald Weismann, fifty-four, looks like he had a yen for the kinky stuff: bondage, butt-plugs and BDSM. We got a closet full of kinky costumes and a computer hard drive with pervo-smut like you wouldn’t believe. Plus, and you are gonna love this one; the dude is an E-date veteran.
Ramirez stared into the eviscerated body cavity, the shredded-beef burrito basket he’d eaten for lunch, playing flip-flop in his guts. He popped another Pepsid and shot Cullen a glance, ‘A connection?’
Cullen slurped his beverage and belched noisily, ‘You ask me Weismann got wasted by the same degenerate who toasted the others.’
The others. Two dead in the space of a month with the same grizzly M.O. Ramirez massaged his stomach thoughtfully, with the heel of his hand, working on the pain that throbbed in waves. Wondering if this was how his pops had felt when he got gut shot in The Battle of Ong Thanh back in 67. He washed down the Pepsid with a gulp of tepid mineral water that tasted like melted plastic, the first waves of a migraine pulsing at his temples.
More flash gun bursts, picking out the dark shadows of antique furniture against flocked wallpaper. The room burning white, then black as the camera shuttered through the freeze-frame atrocity. Cullen shielded his eyes against the glare, nearly spilling his soda. The room throbbed, heavy with the stench of death. ‘Just like Malibu—Beverly Hills too,’ said Cullen, scratching at the seat of his pants. ‘You can see the similarities. This is one sick serial-killing puppy we are working with here.’
‘There is something more going on,’ said Ramirez matter of fact.
‘Yeah there’s something more, I crawled the freako’s office, took a look-see, at his PC—Home videos galore—just wait till you check them out, this freak filmed everything and I do mean everything. I flipped through his little library and there is some real triple X smut on there, chicks like you wouldn’t believe.’ Cullen paused, shooting Ramirez a sly glance.
Ramirez frowned, and massaged his stomach, with the back of his fist, ‘What is the matter with you Cullen, you permanently priapic or something?’
‘Just trying to brighten your day is all,’ said Cullen blankly. He took another gulp of soda, slurping it noisily to the finish. Thought about tossing it into the crime scene detritus, until he saw Ramirez giving him the eye.
‘Anything missing?’ asked Ramirez.
‘We are taking inventory. This cat had antiques up the ying-yang. So if they took something small, we might never know. But the safe is intact. The locksmith is working on it now.’
‘What about the background?’
‘Fruit-loop loner, from back east, no spouse or immediate family, parents deceased. I got the office dredging for relatives. As for career, the cat was into jewels, specifically diamonds. We are talking big-time moneysville. So we got ourselves a motive right there.’
‘Anything is possible at this stage detective.’
‘You ask me, some bullshit hooker-freak got sick of his pervo shtick and opened him up for kicks, see if he would tell her where his private-stash is at.’
‘Private-stash Detective?’
‘A moneybags Bel-Air diamond merchant, are you kidding me? He had to have a private stash. Tax evasion is an instinct with these people. He didn’t get to live on billionaires-row working a Joe shmoe ticket like the rest of us.’
‘Did you check the CCTV? ’
‘The recorders were in the office but the drives have been removed.’
‘Then we will get the uniforms to canvas the neighbors. There are more cameras around here than Good Morning America. There is footage of the killer out there, if we look for it.’
Cullen scratched his facial stubble with a thoughtful look and nodded. ‘You got it,’ he said.
Ramirez turned back to the eviscerated corpse and said, ‘You were right about one thing Cullen who ever did this was sick. Damn sick. Let’s get the hell out of here. I need a proper drink,’
Cullen sniffed, then wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. ‘Now you are talking, there ain’t nothing like a couple of drinks to sooth the way through the overtime shuffle. We should head over to Harry’s catch the end of the game. It’s not like Pervo-Ronnie here is going anywhere right?’
Ramirez felt the acid bile rise high in his throat, ‘No time Detective. We get take out and go. I wanna get over to the station, to scope out the forensics data. If we can get a break in the lab, we got a connection. Which means we are going to have ourselves a kudos filled weekend. If not, I want to get a jump on technical, make sure they run the cross-check connections on the e-mail records tonight, so we can chase down the names next shift.’ The bile tasted hot and metallic. He longed for the crisp taste of cold booze: Tequila-Blanco, on ice.
Cullen narrowed his eyes. ‘Hey, I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy or something? You don’t watch that work ethic of yours, you are going to end up in a hospital bed.’
THE SEX NET 02
As the two-thirty business special, hit cruising altitude heading west to LAX from Newark New Jersey. Corin Cabrillo handed out a Glenfiddich and Soda to the executive in 12C. The suit asked for more peanuts, so he could get a second look down her blouse. She handed him a packet of the honey roast cashews and some mini pretzels gratis. The suit peered over his spectacles, fingering his collar nervously, as she leaned in with a waft of Channel No5, flashing him her Latina smile. He smirked back, sweaty and priapic. Opened his big-fish mouth like he was about to throw her a question, then swallowed it back down, oozing body odor and desperation. Men.
She leaned over, arranged his lap tray, folding a napkin under his drink with manicured fingernails. Told him one hour-thirty before touch down. He mumbled thanks, looking into her cleavage, like he just couldn’t help himself. She flashed him a perfect smile. ‘Can I get you anything else sir?’ Again the negative—not knowing where to put his eyes.
She twisted her eyebrow suggestively soaking up his discomfort, feeling a rush of pleasure. Turning on her heels, she sensed him crane his neck, ogling her ass, as she sashayed back to the galley.
Corin hated Jersey. Every trip the same: flying west on the sleaze-ball express. Heading down the aisle, she saw them up by the bulkhead, her so-called co-workers. Corin’s lips twisted tight with annoyance—Mimi talking to Herman again, fawning over his swish muscles. Slut. Not that she
could help it, some people had no self-respect.
‘Busy?’
Herman gave her a sour face, Never too busy to fit you in Corin,’ he cooed.
Corin said, ‘I think your boyfriend in 12C is in heat.’
Herman rolled his eyes. ‘Well you shouldn’t have thrust those porn-star tits in his face should you then?’ He shot Mimi a triumphant look and stalked off. Corin narrowed her eyes, watched him go. She hated the way he walked in his over-tight pants wiggling his ass like that. She hated his flirting and carrying on, but most of all she hated the way he looked down at her, like he was better than her.
‘He was just being nice,’ said Mimi.
‘What was he being so nice about exactly?’
‘Ambition, were talking about ambition.’
Corin curled her lip with distaste. ‘What would Fey-Wray know about ambition?’
‘I told him about the salon.’
Corin snorted contemptuously, she couldn’t help it, Mimi’s dream of service sector subservience sickened her. Like there was nothing better to do in life than kow-tow to customers like some mindless poodle. ‘You and that salon, what you want to do, live in Sherman Oaks all your life?’
Mimi looked pouty, ‘I want out after this run, we are risking to much.’ She whispered glancing down the aisle after Herman. He was joshing it up, with an overweight businesswoman, like she was the most fascinating person in the world. Herman was a nice guy. Uncomplicated.
‘You told Frank this?’ asked Corin.
‘I told him, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He said he would make it worth my while to run another trip. Front me the money I need to get the Salon up. You should join me Corin. We could pool our money and forget about Frank. Remember how we used to dream about writing our own ticket when we were back in school? Just us, with no bosses or workday schedule to tie us down.’
Corin twisted her head away slightly, as the words impacted, pulling her back to a high school classroom where Mr. Beany their math teacher droned in a southern monotone, about fractions and trigonometry to the thrum of school room learning, industrious and hard-fought. The ideas of the classroom never meant anything to Corin. Where was Beany now: back in his workday routine teaching trig’ to a new set of teenage ingrates. ‘I got plans. Big plans,’ said Corin slowly. She turned back to Mimi; saw her staring wide-eyed, like she was waiting for some kind of biblical revelation. Poor innocent Mimi, Frank Rothstein was a bad man. The kind of man who would never front a cutsie-pie former cheerleader from the San Fernando Valley a dime, unless he thought there was something in it for him. Frank was a bastard, a dirty bastard. If he got his hooks into Mimi he would destroy her. Trouble was he had her captured already—dangling on a financial string that he could cut, or reel-in at any moment. Corin felt protective, responsible. But it was too late; they were in deep—deeper than she had ever thought possible in those sun-filled high school days.
Mimi said, ‘Why do you always play it so close Corin? You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Say, you aren’t knocked up or anything are you?’
‘Nothing like that,’ smiled Corin, ‘in fact I’ve got another date. I would like you to come. We can take them to Frank’s place in the hills.’
Mimi’s looked uneasy. ‘Another date so soon? What about Frank? Frank said we had to play it cool while we were working for him.’
What’s the matter with you? Do you want to be a fucking airhostess all your life? Hissed Corin nastily. A passenger in the front row, near the galley looked up, gave them a sheepish smile, staring curiously, like he thought he had heard something. He caught Corin’s implacable gaze, then delved back into the magazine he was reading.
‘I would never let you down Corin, you know that,’ stammered Mimi.’
Corin smiled brightly. Good, I am glad. She reached up caressed Mimi’s hair fondly, gently. ‘Don’t worry, we will be rid of Frank Rothstein soon enough and you will get that Salon, the perfect one, the one you always dreamed of.’ Corin saw Herman flouncing down the isle towards them. She looked instinctively to the overhead locker, the locker where the bag was, the bag with the diamonds—Frank’s diamonds. She turned to lock down the Galley. There would be no Salon. It was all a desperate dream. Frank Rothstein had them, and now that he had them, he would never let them go.
THE SEX NET 03
‘Where the hell are you Costello?’ Flying into Los Angeles from Camarillo, I got the call: Joe Russell, the partner. He sounded kind of mad, but Joe always sounds mad, so what’s the difference?
‘What you playing at Costello? I lined this one up for you, so you couldn’t miss.’
He was talking about the double date, like I needed his help dating. I mean really, the guy had to be kidding right? But sadly he wasn’t, Joe had a philosophy: You fall off the relationship horse, you get right back on. It is a philosophy I don’t subscribe to, not even for a little bit of light relief at the weekends. ‘My attorney says dating is verboten.’ I eased out the throttle, taking the helicopter fast and low over the breakers, salt water misting the windscreen.
‘Your attorney? Now I have heard everything Costello! The chick wants to see you again, though I’m damned if I know why,’ Joe was annoyed, or maybe just annoying—a close call either way. I figured he was sore at me for blowing out early on the dates he had set us up with at the Cuban Grill in Venice.
I banked left, heading in fast over the Malibu shoreline. Glancing at the traffic running heavy on the Pacific Coast Highway. You could almost see Brentwood in the haze. I pictured Kimberly, my estranged ex, sipping ice-cold cocktails poolside and plotting my demise. Truth is I was glad Kimberly was divorcing me. The 27-year-old heir-head she had met at the Beverley Hills Country Club was just her type, a trust-fund brat with sailboat fuel for brains; they were perfect for each other.
Speaking into the helmet mic, I said, ‘Corin is cute, but she’s not my type,’
‘You are kidding me Costello? Airhostesses are everybody’s type.’
‘Shouldn’t that be flight-attendants?’ I asked. Mr. PC.
‘Word to the wise Costello, when a date asks you what you drive, you tell her about the seven million dollar chopper, not the Dodge pickup truck.’
Below: Pacific Palisades coming up fast. I curled the helicopter closer to the shore, heading for touchdown at Santa Monica airport.
‘I like my pickup truck,’ I said. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘Hey wise guy, if I hadn’t told that Cabrillo chick about the business, you would never have got a call back on this one, it’s almost like you don’t want to get laid.’
I could hear the gnashing teeth—see the cigar waggling angrily at the corner of Joe’s mouth. I knew he wouldn’t like it, but I told him anyway, ‘Truth is, I’m not ready for any kind of relationship.’
‘Aw, boo-hoo Costello, you think you’re the only guy in the world with a failed marriage in their wake? Besides, that’s not the reason I’m calling, I got a heads up for you.’
‘Oh yeah, what’s knew partner?’ Curving around The Santa Monica pier now, I took the Bell 430 down towards the airport, with control clearance for strip-two. I hovered in low over Ocean Park Boulevard, the heat bouncing off the strip in calorific waves.
‘I got a call from Inez. She says the cops buzzed by the office asking questions,’ growled Joe.
The helicopter skated in the cross wind, but I moved on instinct, coming in slow and controlled, the rotor backwash pounding down across the tarmac. I hovered for a second, then touchdown. I readjusted my helmet mic as the blurring rotors powered down. ‘How is Inez?’ I asked my pulse double-timing at the thought of the forbidden.
‘Out of your league as always you amateur,’ sneered Joe affectionately.
‘What did the cops want?’ I asked, unbuckling my harness and flipping switches into post flight mode.
‘Wouldn’t say. You been playing fast and loose on the nation’s highways with that antique you drive?’
’It’s a classic
.’
‘A man on the singles market can’t afford to be driving a vehicle like that, unless you want to look like a redneck serial killer, that is.’
‘Amusing, but you don’t have little miss fifty-percent and her rat faced lawyer sitting on your case. Now if you don’t mind, it’s Max’s chow time and I have get back to the apartment before he eats my couch again.’
‘You and that hound Costello.’
‘Weimaraner’s are highly strung. They get lonely.’
‘You need to focus Costello, forget about the hound. You got poontang problems, big-time.’
‘I gotta go Joe, catch you later.’
‘When you’ve finished playing ball with the Pooch, you better get up to Hollywood Costello. I told the girls we would meet them for Mai-Tais and a little Jacuzzi time. They’ve got this mac-daddy spread on Lakeridge Drive. So you better not let me down.’
‘What’s the number?’
‘End of the street, near the overlook, you can’t miss it. You are going to love this Costello—you can see the Hollywood sign from the Jacuzzi.’
‘I’ll meet you,’ I sighed. ‘But I am going to have to call by the office, we got a problem with the Ellen Positano job.’
‘Hey, those Deep-Five government bozo’s can take a number. Project poontang takes priority Costello. Besides, I am on top of the situation. I got a team out to take care of Positano, right after I picked Mimi up this morning.
‘You picked her up?’
‘Yeah, from the airport, she was flying in on the red eye. I took the Corvette. Now that’s what you call a dude’s car. Over and out.’
‘Blow it out your ass Lieutenant.’ I japed. No answer, just static crackle of a dead line bouncing back over the headset. Joe was probably half way to Hollywood by now, mixing it up with the rush hour traffic. The guy was relentless. I climbed down from the helicopter and headed towards the parking lot, out front of the terminal buildings. Mercedes, Lexus, Infiniti were just some of the brands parked there. Foreign cars. They might be reliable, they might be fancy pants cool, but they just aren’t American, and that is a problem. I’d had the Dodge pick up for close to ten years. Had to modify it of course: new engine, new suspension, new carbon fiber paneling. But underneath it was a pure bred Dodge, and trucks didn’t come much more American than that. I popped open the driver’s side door, throwing my flight case and helmet on to the rear ledge.
