Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Nobody has that right.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t use my name in your article.”

  “I never mention sources unless they want to be mentioned.”

  “If the cops come here and question me because of your article, I’ll deny everything.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “That guy’s a pig. He’s not even human. He uses people. He treats us clients like we’re his personal sex toys.”

  And he likes to play games, thought Brody. Vicious games.

  “Are you saying you’re not the only one he’s done this to?” said Brody.

  “For sure. The stinking pig. He plays his clients like violins. He knows he can get away with it, because we need him to get auditions for us. He’s the worst kind of dickhead.”

  Could she be the one that had Busby killed and his head cut off in revenge against Lyndon? wondered Brody. She sounded like she hated him enough to seek vengeance. And she wouldn’t want him to know she had done it, because it would sabotage her acting career.

  Somebody knocked on Brody’s door.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  He realized he was talking to a dead line.

  Chapter 37

  Brody answered his door.

  All six two of Peltz was standing in the hall, clad in a black suit and navy blue tie, cropped white hair glowing under the overhead strip light.

  “I was getting ready to call you,” said Brody. “Come in.”

  Peltz entered.

  Brody closed the door behind him.

  “Have you found any secret documents at Fox’s house?” said Peltz, adjusting his black glasses on his parrot nose, his fingernails pared to the quick. “It’s vital that we get the goods on him.”

  “I don’t have anything like that, but someone is harassing his family.”

  “Harassing?”

  “Somebody killed his Great Dane, cut its head off, and sent it to the Fox home.”

  Peltz put his hand to his chin and paced around the room in thought.

  “This sounds like it’s right up the SVR’s alley,” he said. “They’re the reincarnation of the Soviet KGB. Terror is one of their weapons. Remember, it was the communist Lenin who said the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize.”

  “Why would they want to terrorize Fox if he’s working for them?”

  “Maybe they think he’s a double agent. Maybe they’re testing his loyalty. Could be a host of reasons.”

  “How are you gonna handle it?”

  “We’ll keep their house under surveillance,” said Peltz, drawing up in the middle of the room. “In case something else happens, we’ll be there to prevent any bloodshed.”

  “What if the Foxes go to the cops about it?”

  “Are they?”

  “I said, ‘What if . . .’”

  “I can’t believe Lyndon would want to bring in the cops if he has top-secret documents stashed in his house.”

  Where is it? thought Brody. Maybe those documents were the “it” the anonymous letter was referring to.

  “What do you want me to do?” he said.

  “Hang in there,” said Peltz. “Keep trying to find those secret docs. You’re our inside man.”

  “As long as Deirdre Fox is safe.”

  “Of course, she is. The SVR tries another terror attack, our men will swarm over the house in seconds to protect the family.”

  “Isn’t killing a pet dog a crime?”

  “Not in federal jurisdiction. That’s the cops’ job.”

  “But what if the SVR did it, like you said? Wouldn’t that make it a federal case?”

  “It would, indeed. The thing is, we don’t want to nail the SVR on a dog-killing charge. We’re after bigger fish. We want Lyndon Fox, traitor. Killing a pet dog is a venial crime compared to committing treason. The dog killer would probably just have to pay a fine.”

  “I don’t like seeing anyone get away with killing a pet dog.”

  “Let’s move on. What about the docs?”

  “What about them?”

  “Have you found anything that would prove Lyndon Fox is committing treason?”

  “Nothing.”

  Brody debated whether he should tell Peltz about Lyndon’s rape of Terri Symonds. He decided not to. After all, sexual assault had nothing to do with treason. Rapes per se weren’t federal crimes, though they could be under certain circumstances—for instance, if they had taken place on federal property, or the rapist had crossed state lines in the commission of the rape. But as a general rule, the feds had no jurisdiction over rapes.

  Brody didn’t plan on telling the LAPD about the rape either, because Terri had refused to notify them. If he told them, she said she would deny the crime took place in order to save her career. He believed her.

  “Remember. We got your back,” said Peltz, retreating toward the door.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t have one of your own men search Fox’s home for the secret documents. Can’t you get a warrant?”

  “You’re already inside. We don’t want to do anything to tip him off that we’re onto him. If he knows we’re onto him, he’ll be more careful and more difficult to catch red-handed. He might even destroy the documents.”

  “All right.”

  “Could you show me the way out?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Brody, and opened the door for him.

  The guy was a stickler for politeness, decided Brody. Everything was about protocol with feds, he guessed.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Peltz, his breath smelling of booze as he passed Brody into the corridor.

  Chapter 38

  Brody drove to Deirdre’s villa. He saw Lyndon’s Porsche in the driveway and parked behind it. It had a legacy California black and gold license tag.

  The fuchsia bougainvillea on the pergola in front of the villa’s entrance appeared preternaturally bright, exuding an aura of impending evil, as though the cancerous growth of the flowers had been stimulated with the fertilizer of ground-up corpses. He felt goose bumps stipple his skin as he beheld the bougainvillea that poisoned the air with its blinding tawdriness and overpowering aroma. Like something out of “Rappaccini’s Daughter.”

  Brody sat in his car staring at the bougainvillea, mesmerized by its uncanny beauty. He hadn’t paid much attention to it the last time he was here. Maybe the sun was brighter now, highlighting the meretricious allure of the flowers.

  He began washing his hands. He was experiencing a mild epileptic trance, he realized. Brought on by the blinding, yet hypnotic, brightness of the flowers? He couldn’t say.

  Snapping out of his trance he got out of his car, walked down the driveway, and approached the bougainvillea-embowered door. The cloying jasminelike scent of the flowers insinuated itself into him permeating and luring him with a delicious sense of evil. The villa was beckoning to him, waiting for his return. It seemed to be alive, like it was breathing, its bougainvillea throbbing and growing, feeding off his presence, draining the life out of him.

  Brody shook his head to clear it. He must be dreaming.

  He rang the doorbell.

  He could hear yelling inside the house, but he couldn’t make out what the disputants were arguing about.

  Nobody answered the door.

  He rang again.

  A minute later Deirdre opened the door, surprised to see him. Lyndon came into view behind her, his face pink.

  “What are you doing here?” he said. “I don’t want your insurance.”

  “Your wife’s interested in buying a policy from me,” said Brody.

  “Come in,” said Deirdre.

  “We’re busy,” said Lyndon, making an effort to close the door in Brody’s face, but Deirdre prevented him.

  “Come in,” repeated Deirdre.

  Brody entered the foyer. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Maybe you can help us.”

  “How can he help us?” said Lyndon, bent out of shape.

  I
gnoring him Deirdre walked into the living room, followed by Lyndon and Brody.

  “Can we take out insurance on a pet?” she asked Brody.

  “Of course,” said Brody.

  “It’s a little late in the day to buy pet insurance,” said Lyndon.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Some nutcase butchered our dog.”

  Brody feigned surprise. Deirdre had already told him about Busby’s death, but Lyndon didn’t know that. Brody faked his ignorance, because he didn’t want Lyndon to find out Deirdre was seeing him behind Lyndon’s back. Discretion, decided Brody. He was the soul of discretion when it came to his clients.

  “Did you report it to the cops?” said Brody.

  “No,” said Lyndon.

  “Killing someone’s pet is illegal in California.”

  “The cops aren’t gonna spend any time investigating a dog’s death. You think I was born yesterday? The most the sleazeball would get would be a fine—and I bet he wouldn’t even get that. Why bother?”

  “I want to know who did it,” said Deirdre. “He could try something worse next time, and I want to know why he hates us so much.”

  “He was a beautiful dog,” said Lyndon, remembering Busby with a wistful smile, which morphed into a grimace. “And they cut his head off. The bastards. It’s sick.”

  “If you had insurance on the dog, we could have it investigated,” said Brody. “My life insurance company has a detective who investigates claims like this.”

  “Goody for them.”

  “We should call the cops,” said Deirdre, gnawing her lower lip.

  “We’re not calling the cops,” said Lyndon, “and that’s final. They’re just gonna mess our house up and ask nosy questions that aren’t any of their business. And in the end they’ll accomplish squat, bubkes.”

  “What’s to stop the creep from killing one of us next time?” said Deirdre.

  “Keep the doors locked and the alarm set. He’s a coward. That’s why he killed a harmless dog and not one of us. He hasn’t got the guts to come after us.”

  Deirdre stamped the heel of one of her pumps on the floor in agitation. “I don’t understand why somebody’s doing this to us.”

  “We can take care of it.”

  Deirdre clutched her head in distress and left the living room.

  Chapter 39

  Lyndon glared at Brody. “I don’t want you coming back here anymore.”

  “Your wife wants to talk to me,” said Brody.

  “You think you can just barge in here any time you want—”

  “I think I can help.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want your insurance.”

  “You’re ugly, you know that?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Lyndon, not believing his ears.

  “You’re frigging ugly,” said Brody, raising his voice. “I bet you couldn’t get a date in high school,” he said, fleering.

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s why you wanted to become a talent manager. So you could coerce the hot babes into having sex with you or you’d refuse to help them get auditions. You knew you could get never get a date with a looker by asking her out, so you had to resort to force.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Women love me. I don’t need force. I’m gonna sue you for slander.”

  “You’re so ugly I don’t know how you walk down the street without putting a bag over your head. You should be considerate to others.”

  “You asshole,” Lyndon hissed.

  “Not only couldn’t you get a date in high school, you couldn’t get one in college. You got even uglier as you got older. Your mug looks like it got run over by a Mac truck. When the trucker saw how ugly you still looked after he ran you over, he backed up over your face—”

  “You . . .”

  “How can you stand looking at yourself in the mirror? You must have a cast-iron stomach. Man, I’ve seen ugly, but you take the cake. I seen homeless winos on the street that look better than you, pieces of vomit sticking in their beards, roaches crawling in their whiskers—”

  “Why you . . .”

  “I’m not done with you. I feel like I’m being assaulted by your ugly face when I look at it. I got a good mind to sue you for assault with a deadly weapon—”

  “Asshole,” Lyndon hissed.

  His face twisted with rage, he took a swing at Brody’s jaw.

  Brody ducked the blow and retaliated with a right hook to Lyndon’s chin, knocking Lyndon to the sofa. Rubbing his smarting jaw, lying supine on the sofa, Lyndon glowered up at Brody.

  “You’re the one that’s gonna get sued for assault for that cheap shot,” said Lyndon. “I’m gonna break you, you son of a bitch, bleed you for every dime you got. You won’t even be able to afford a cardboard box to live in under a freeway overpass when I’m through with you.”

  “It was self-defense, Your Honor.”

  Lyndon scoffed. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

  “I touch a nerve, did I?”

  “With that BS about women?”

  “Do they close their eyes when they have sex with you so they won’t have to look at your gargoyle face? You’re OK with giving them nightmares, huh? Where’s your compassion, man?”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Why, your face makes slimy frog skin look beautiful. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it,” said Brody, shivering with disgust.

  “What are you? An expert on women? Gimme a break.”

  “I know they don’t like frog faces.”

  “Shut the fuck up and get out of here.”

  “Do you lock them in leg irons so they can’t run away from you in revulsion?”

  Lyndon snickered. “I’ve fucked so many women, I can’t even count them all. They’re dying to get their hands on me. You’re the one they wouldn’t look twice at, you loser, you zit-faced punk. You’re talking about yourself, not about me. I have to beat women off with sticks, they’re so hot for me.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “I don’t care what you’re hearing. Everything’s consensual with me, and no woman will deny that. I’ve laid scores of the hottest starlets in Hollywood. I can’t even count ’em all.”

  “I find that hard to believe, considering you have the face of a toad.”

  Lyndon bolted to his feet, his complexion livid. “You’re an idiot. You think you know squat about girls? Don Juan the insurance hack? Want me to tell you how many drop-dead gorgeous models and starlets I’ve had?”

  “Yeah. Tell me. And it was all consensual.”

  “What was that?” said Deirdre, entering the living room, staring at Lyndon. “What did you say?”

  “Oops,” said Brody, giving Lyndon a sheepish look.

  “Nothing,” said Lyndon, taken aback by her presence.

  “You said you were seeing starlets,” she said, doing a slow burn. “I heard you.”

  Lyndon fidgeted. “That was—uh, it was before I met you.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre, easing up a bit, wanting to believe him.

  Lyndon paced around the room. “Of course, I dated other women before I met you. I’m a successful man. Women are attracted to confident, successful men. They swarm around me like bees to honey.”

  “It sounded like you said you were seeing someone.”

  “No, no. Those days are over.” He approached her, smiling. “Why do I want to play the field when I have you to come home to?”

  Brody decided not to push the matter. He would talk to Deirdre in private about what Terri Symonds had told him. He wasn’t going to name names. He didn’t want to sabotage Terri’s career. He owed her that much for confiding in him about her rape.

  “Why is your jaw red?” she asked Lyndon.

  “This jerk assaulted me,” he answered, casting a baleful glance at Brody.

  “Are you gonna call the cops?” said Brody, knowing Lyndon wouldn’t.

  “I’m gonna do worse
. I’m gonna drag your sleazy ass through court and dock all of your bottom-feeder paychecks for the rest of your miserable life when I win a judgment against you.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Enraged, Lyndon retreated to a whatnot standing against the wall and wrenched open one of its drawers. He snagged a pistol from the drawer and trained it on Brody, eyes black with menace.

  Brody tensed. He had left his SIG P365 in his car. Maybe he had pushed Lyndon too far with his ragging. He had wanted to get the guy to reveal his true self to his wife. Brody had almost succeeded, but it looked like Deirdre had fallen for Lyndon’s glib excuses about laying women before he met her.

  “Then maybe I should take matters into my own hands,” said Lyndon.

  Deirdre riveted her eyes on the pistol with fear. “We don’t need that, Lyndon.”

  “Listen to her,” said Brody, warily. “Let’s all take a deep breath and cool off.”

  “Maybe you’re the one that killed Busby,” said Lyndon.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Brody, careful not to move his hands.

  He didn’t want Lyndon to think he was preparing a counterattack.

  “Why would he kill Busby?” Deirdre asked Lyndon. “Think about what you’re saying. That makes no sense.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lyndon. “I think he’s out to get me.”

  “I didn’t kill your dog,” said Brody. “Put that gun away.”

  “Why? Are you gonna have another heart attack?” sniggered Lyndon.

  “You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

  “I have the right to defend myself. You punched me in the jaw.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “Every time you come here you cause trouble.”

  “The trouble was already here when I arrived. l could hear you two arguing when I rang your doorbell.”

  “It’s none of your business. You’re a total stranger.”

  “Maybe you should leave,” Deirdre told Brody.

  “Yeah. Get outta here, or I’ll splatter your brains on the wall,” said Lyndon, brandishing his pistol.

  Brody backed out of the living room, keeping an eye on Lyndon, who kept his pistol trained on him the whole way.