Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Probably.”

  “Damn.”

  “But it’s circumstantial evidence. It’s not like having a smoking gun.”

  “This is as close as it gets to seeing a smoking gun in his hand, for my money.”

  Brody leaned toward her in confidence. “Do you want me to talk to that guy I know to offer some not-so-friendly persuasion to Lyndon to get him to stop playing around?”

  She clutched her head in dismay. “I don’t know what I want.” She paused. “I want to be a hundred percent sure he’s cheating before I commit to a remedy. There’s still room for doubt.”

  “What’s it gonna take to convince you a hundred percent?”

  “Seeing him in bed with another woman. Or a photo of it.”

  “You’re going out of your way to give him the benefit of the doubt, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” she said irritably, fidgeting on her chair. “My marriage is at stake here.”

  “OK,” said Brody, leaning back in his seat. “It’s your dime.”

  “I need to know the truth,” she said, bowing her head, tearing a napkin into strips on the tabletop, and depositing them near her cup of latte.

  “Of course,” he said, watching her. “Want me to talk to Lyndon?”

  She looked up at him. “Why?”

  “To get him to tell the truth.”

  “Not with that friend of yours the persuader, or whatever you call him.”

  “No. Me. Alone.”

  “You’re not gonna . . . ,” she tailed off.

  “I’m just gonna talk. No rough stuff.”

  “I don’t know if it would do any good. If he won’t level with me, why should he with you?”

  “You never know. I’m pretty good at questioning people.”

  “I suppose you can try, if you think it’ll do any good.” She changed the subject. “Did you find DNA yet on the mucilage of the anonymous letter I gave you?”

  “None. The sender didn’t lick the flap. He applied tap water to the mucilage.”

  “How do you know he used tap water?”

  “The minerals in the water. They match the ones found in tap water in this part of LA.”

  “Then it could have been Lyndon who sent it?”

  “Yeah. Or maybe it’s the guy stalking you, or anybody else that lives around here. The water on the mucilage isn’t much help to us as evidence.”

  “Have you found out anything about the stalker?”

  “No.”

  Agitated, she got up and flounced out, leaving a pile of paper napkin shreds on the tabletop.

  Chapter 34

  Out of sorts, Deirdre returned to her villa.

  Valerie was wandering around the living room.

  “Shouldn’t you be at college?” said Deirdre.

  “I don’t have any classes scheduled for today.”

  “Do you think Lyndon’s been acting strange?”

  “He seems”—Valerie searched for the proper word—“preoccupied.”

  “He lost a suitcase that has important papers in it.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Valerie, and darted out of the room.

  A few moments later, Deirdre started when she heard a bloodcurdling scream.

  Panic-stricken, Valerie pelted into the living room.

  “What’s wrong?” said Deirdre in alarm.

  “Busby . . . ,” Valerie trailed off.

  “What about Busby?”

  Overcome, Valerie couldn’t find her voice.

  Deirdre charged into the foyer to find out what was going on.

  A package the size of a hatbox lay on the floor in front of the closed front door. The box had a mailing address pasted on it. The box’s lid was open.

  Wondering what had prompted Valerie’s scream, Deirdre approached the parcel warily. When she was close enough to the box to make out its contents, she retched and stumbled back from it.

  A Great Dane’s blood-streaked head was stuffed into the box. Busby’s head.

  White-faced, Deirdre shuffled into the living room.

  “Somebody killed Busby,” said Valerie, weeping. “What sicko would do something like that?”

  Deirdre picked up the phone on the melamine coffee table, called Lyndon, and told him what had happened.

  “Should we call the cops?” she said into the handset.

  “No, no,” said Lyndon. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not? Killing a pet is illegal.”

  “We can handle this ourselves. We don’t want cops tramping around our house.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Don’t panic.”

  “Some thug slaughtered our dog, and I’m not supposed to panic? A sicko’s got it in for us,” said Deirdre, her face twisted in anguish.

  “Who delivered the box?”

  “Who delivered the box?” Deirdre asked Valerie.

  “I don’t know. It was left at the door,” answered Valerie.

  “What’s the return address?” said Deirdre.

  “A PO box.”

  “No name with it?”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I couldn’t hear,” said Lyndon over the phone. “Who sent it?”

  “The sender didn’t use his name,” said Deirdre. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the cops?”

  “We can handle this.”

  “Who would do such a horrible thing?” said Valerie, face streaked with tears.

  “Who hates us this much?” Deirdre asked Lyndon, her voice strained, her hand squeezing the handset in a vise grip till her knuckles turned white.

  “I don’t know,” said Lyndon.

  “You don’t know, or you’re not telling me?”

  “If I knew, why wouldn’t I tell you?”

  “What should we do?”

  “Don’t do anything till I get back home. I’m leaving now.”

  “Hurry up. Valerie is traumatized.”

  Lyndon hung up.

  Deirdre didn’t like the idea of not calling the cops. She couldn’t understand why Lyndon was against it. She needed to talk to someone. If this wasn’t a threat, nothing was. And she feared the threat was aimed at her.

  She walked outside to the pool deck out of Valerie’s earshot, produced her cell phone, and called Brody.

  “How fast can you get here?” she said.

  “Fifteen minutes tops,” he said.

  Lyndon would need at least a half hour to get here from West Hollywood, decided Deirdre. Depending on traffic, it could take him twice as long. She didn’t want to risk talking to Brody over the phone about Busby, figuring her calls could be monitored.

  “Come here ASAP,” she told Brody. “I’ll be waiting outside in the front. We’ll talk in your car.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Just get here.”

  She terminated the call, returned to the house, inspected the address label on the open package that contained Busby’s head, and strode out the front door to get some air, barely controlling her urge to vomit.

  Chapter 35

  Brody drove his Mini to Deirdre’s villa, saw her standing in the driveway waiting for him, and pulled up to her.

  She got into his car.

  “Drive,” she said, fretting.

  “What happened?” said Brody, picking up on her distress as he backed the Mini out of the driveway. “Was it your husband?”

  “No—I mean, I don’t know.”

  “What, then?”

  “Somebody mailed Busby’s bloody head to us.”

  “Busby? Isn’t that your Great Dane’s name?”

  She nodded, face ashen.

  Hands on the wheel, Brody grimaced. “Did you call the cops?”

  “Lyndon told me not to.”

  Brody drove onto Georgina Avenue. “Why not? Killing a pet is illegal—”

  “I know. He said he didn’t want them pawing throug
h our house.”

  Brody thought about it. “The only reason I can think of is, he wouldn’t want them to find anything that connected him to the killing.”

  She faced him. “You think he had something to do with it?”

  “It would explain why he doesn’t want cops in your house.”

  “You think he would kill his own dog? Why for God’s sake?”

  “The head is meant as a message.”

  “To who?”

  “Who was the package addressed to?”

  “The Fox family.”

  “What was the return address?”

  “A PO box,” she said, making a face.

  “No name?”

  “None.”

  “I can check out the address after you give it to me to see who’s renting the PO box.”

  “I can’t see him killing his own dog. He loved Busby.”

  Brody pulled into a strip mall and parked across from a donut shop that a thirtyish cigarette-smoking Korean guy was leaving, a grease-mottled pink box of a baker’s dozen of donuts in his hands.

  “Who else could’ve done it?” said Brody.

  “The stalker?” said Deirdre. “But I don’t understand what the message is.”

  “It’s an act of intimidation and a threat.”

  “Why? What did I do to deserve this?”

  “Do you know who delivered it?”

  “Valerie said she saw a postal vehicle outside when she retrieved the package from our doorstep.”

  “Was Lyndon with you when it happened?”

  “No. He’s at work. I called him. He’ll be back any minute. I don’t want him to know I spoke to you.”

  “OK.

  “We have to finish our conversation quickly. I need to be back at the house before he returns or he’ll think I contacted the cops.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch.

  “If you give me the empty package the dog’s head came in, I can have it examined for fingerprints and DNA,” said Brody.

  “I’ll try, but Lyndon might stop me.”

  “Which would make him look guilty.”

  She shook her head in distress. “I don’t understand what the message is. How am I supposed to know what to do if I can’t understand the message?”

  “Maybe Lyndon doesn’t want you to try and find out if he’s having an affair. This could be his way of warning you to back off.”

  She checked her wristwatch again. “We’d better head back to the house.”

  Brody fired the ignition, put the Mini in reverse, backed out of his parking space, shifted into first gear, and made for the parking lot’s exit.

  “Did the package have a note inside it demanding payment?” he said.

  “There was nothing inside the package besides Busby’s head.” Deirdre’s voice broke as she recalled the grisly image.

  “They haven’t explained what they want yet,” mused Brody. “Or maybe it’s an act of revenge.”

  “Do you think things will get worse?”

  “I can’t say until I know who’s doing this to you and why.”

  “I feel violated. How do I protect myself from more terrorism?”

  “Does your house have an alarm system?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your first line of defense.”

  “You think they’re preparing to invade my house?” she said, eyes wide.

  “We can’t rule it out. They already got onto your grounds because they kidnaped your dog.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to get a gun.”

  “Christ. Is it coming to that?”

  “It’s always best to prepare for the worst.”

  Brody could make out her villa through the windshield.

  “I don’t see his Porsche in the driveway,” she said.

  Brody pulled into her driveway and let her out. “You sure you don’t want me to inspect the package?”

  “There’s no time. I’ll be in touch. Now get outta here,” she said, slamming the passenger-side door shut and breaking into a jog down the driveway to her front door.

  Brody backed out of the driveway and bugged out.

  Chapter 36

  Brody returned to his apartment.

  He wondered who would have a motive to terrorize the Fox family. Maybe it had something to do with Lyndon’s job as a Hollywood talent manager.

  Brody sat down at his laptop and awoke it from Sleep mode. Could the blonde he had seen Lyndon pick up on Sunset Strip know something? Terri Symonds. He found her Facebook page and scrolled through her posts.

  She didn’t mention anywhere that she worked for Sugar Babies International.

  One post caught his eye. She said she had been assaulted by a powerful VIP in the Biz, but nobody would help her.

  Brody found her phone number and decided to call her. He dug his cell phone out of his trouser pocket.

  “Hello,” said a female voice.

  “Hello. Could I speak to Terri Symonds?”

  “About what?”

  “I’m Larry Fenton. I’m doing an investigative report on the sex habits of movers and shakers in show business. Would you be able to help me out on that?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Are you Terri Symonds?”

  “Yeah,” she said, tentatively.

  “Don’t you have a talent manager in Hollywood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you travel in the social circles of Hollywood power brokers.”

  “It’s part of my job. I’m an actress.”

  “I thought I’d seen you somewhere. Who’s your talent manager?”

  “Lyndon Fox. If this is about a job offer, you need to go through him first.”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “You’re a reporter, huh?”

  “Yeah. This is your chance to get some publicity. You can tell your side of the story about showbiz. The inside scoop. You know what they say. The only bad publicity is no publicity in Hollywood.”

  “They say that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I still don’t know why you want to talk to me of all people.”

  “I happened to read your Facebook page. You wrote that you’d been assaulted by a Hollywood power broker.”

  “I wrote that post, and absolutely nobody responded to it. It was like screaming into outer space. Nobody cared.”

  “Did you file a report with the cops?”

  “No way. It would ruin my acting career. But I had to tell someone, so I posted it on Facebook. It’s not right.”

  “Well, you can tell me.”

  She paused. “It’ll give me a bad reputation. Nobody’ll want to hire me.”

  “I won’t use your name if you don’t want me to. Maybe other women will come forward after they read about your experiences in my article.”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t think he should be able to get away with rape, especially when it’s one of his own clients,” she said.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “My talent manager. He lines up auditions for roles in movies for me.”

  “I thought an agent is supposed to do that.”

  “My agent negotiates my contracts.”

  “Which agency does your talent manager work for?”

  “Pickers Talent Agency. He’s a big-time talent manager.”

  “Your manager’s Lyndon Fox?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?” she said, suspiciously.

  “You just told me. And it’s on your Facebook page.”

  “Oh, I guess I did. OK.”

  “He’s the one that raped you?”

  “He did.”

  “It wasn’t consensual?”

  “No way. He invited me to his apartment saying he wanted to talk business with me. When I went to his apartment, he said he could get me a part in a porn movie. I told him I didn’t want to do it. He wanted me to audition for the movie with him. No way was I g
onna fall for that line.”

  “You said no.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then what?”

  “He said the part could lead to parts in major movies. I doubted that. Porn stars don’t go anywhere in Hollywood. He said porn queens Marilyn Chambers and Traci Lords got parts in major movies and TV. That’s what he told me, anyway. I thought he was selling me a bill of goods. But he was persistent. He said he couldn’t get me any more auditions unless I auditioned for the porno. I didn’t know what to do. My career was at stake.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed my blouse and tore it off. I said no. I fought him, but he’s much stronger than me. He threw me down on his bed—”

  “You were in his bedroom?”

  “It was a large studio apartment. The bed was in a corner of the room.”

  “What happened?”

  “After he threw me down on the bed, he yanked my skirt off and raped me,” she said, and started sobbing.

  “You didn’t call the cops?”

  “Are you crazy? I didn’t want to destroy my career. He’s a high-power talent manager. He can make and break actors.”

  “You retained him as your manager?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sniffling.

  “You still see him?”

  “It’s part of my job.”

  “You could get another manager.”

  “You don’t understand Hollywood.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “He would spread the word that I’m difficult to work with. Once the word got around, nobody would agree to take me on as a client. My acting career would be over forever.”

  “You would still have your job at Sugar Babies International.”

  “What?”

  “I googled your name. It says you work at Sugar Babies International.”

  “That’s somebody else with the same name. That’s an escort service, anyway. Hookers operate out of that joint. What’s that got to do with my career?”

  “The girl on their website with your name also has your face.”

  “That cunt. She must’ve stolen my face as well as my name off the Internet.”

  Brody couldn’t tell if she was lying. “It’s not you?”

  “No way, José. That’s an escort service. Nobody uses their real names or faces on that site. You could get busted for working there.”

  “You don’t work there?”

  “Even if I was a member of that group—which is none of your business—it doesn’t give anybody the right to rape me.”