Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “I didn’t know you represented the vice president.”

  “I represent a lot of famous people. They wouldn’t like it if I appeared in the news on account of filing a report with the cops about a mutilated body dropped in our pool. Especially if it’s a guy’s dick sewn on a volleyball. Jeez, it’d be all over the tabloids. It’s so sick it would make the front page. I’d be laughed out of town.”

  “I don’t care who likes it or doesn’t like it. If we don’t tell the cops, something worse might happen next time.”

  “If we tell the cops, the media will get wind of it. You can bet the farm on that. Believe me, you don’t want the media on your ass.”

  Lyndon climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

  Deirdre made a beeline for the French window.

  “Where are you going?” said Lyndon, halting on the stairs eyeballing her.

  “To get that thing out of the trash,” she said, drawing up in front of the French window.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Throwing out evidence is a crime.”

  “Think about what you’re doing.”

  “Do you want to go to jail for concealing evidence?”

  “Nobody’ll ever know about it if you don’t tell anyone. Chill out. You’re not acting rationally.”

  “First they kill our dog. Then they mutilate some guy. Something worse will happen next.”

  “Only if we retaliate by going to the cops.”

  “And what if we get charged with throwing out evidence to obstruct justice?”

  “You’re overthinking this. Let it slide.”

  “Somebody was mutilated, or maybe even killed—and we have evidence of the crime. We can’t throw it out.”

  Her mind made up, Deirdre stalked out the French window.

  Shaking his head in disapproval, Lyndon resumed mounting the stairs.

  Deirdre crossed the yard to the plastic trash can, opened its lid, and gazed at the obscene volleyball perched on top of a tied thirteen-gallon plastic bag full of garbage. The sight nauseated her. She didn’t want to touch the thing. And the stink emanating from it repelled her. She closed the trash can’s lid.

  Her eyes flitted around the yard casting around for a container for the volleyball. She had to conceal it. And preserve it—now that she thought about it. She picked up on the Styrofoam cooler she had used for their Cokes on the pool deck near her chaise longue. The cooler would prevent the phallus from putrefying.

  She retrieved the cooler, carried it to the trash can, which she opened, and, holding her breath, reached into the can and withdrew the noisome volleyball, which she deposited into the cooler. Closing the cooler she took a deep breath.

  She would hide the cooler somewhere until she decided what to do with the volleyball.

  She started when she heard her cell phone chiming in her purse on the pool deck. Cooler in hand, she jogged over to her purse, withdrew the cell phone, and answered.

  “We need to talk,” said Brody.

  “You’re damn right we do,” she said, looking askance at the cooler. “I was getting ready to call you.”

  They arranged a rendezvous.

  Deirdre terminated the call and wondered what to do with the cooler. She couldn’t stand the idea of it in her house. She decided to hide it in the gardening shed. She wasn’t going to tell Lyndon where she had concealed it lest he throw it out.

  Inside the shed she concealed the cooler under a green tarpaulin.

  Making for her house she couldn’t understand Lyndon’s reluctance to tell the cops about the mutilation. Didn’t he realize what was happening? Their family was being harassed. And he was doing nothing about it. It made no sense to her. Hiding your head in the dirt like an ostrich wasn’t the answer. What was he thinking?

  She wasn’t going to let these sick thugs push her around. She was going to fight back.

  Chapter 45

  Brody met Deirdre in an Irish pub that had emerald green leather-upholstered booths and a mahogany bar. The décor was all greens and rich browns. Dennis Day’s tenor voice belted out the sentimental “Danny Boy” over the speaker system.

  They sat at a corner booth out of earshot of fellow patrons. Brody ordered a Guinness draft and Deirdre ordered an iced tea with lemon.

  “I traced the return address on the package that contained Busby’s head,” he said. “There’s no such address.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Deirdre.

  “These aren’t amateurs we’re dealing with. Not a good sign.”

  Brody noticed she was grinding her teeth, her face tense.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said.

  “Do you have any idea why they’re doing this to you? Do you really think your husband’s behind it?”

  “I don’t know.” She frowned, drew a handkerchief out of her purse, and wiped the corners of her mouth with it. “All I know is they’re upping the ante.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She told him about the volleyball with the male genitals stitched onto it.

  Wincing, he thought about it.

  “Why genitals?” he mused.

  “Because it’s revolting.”

  “But why that part of the body? Is it a message?”

  “What kind of ghoulish message would it be?”

  “Maybe it’s a threat that they’ll do the same thing to your husband—castrate him.” He paused in thought. “Or to your lover.”

  “I don’t have a lover,” she said, indignant.

  “I’m speculating out loud. I thought I had to mention it.”

  “Well, put that thought out of your mind.”

  “They’re trying to strike fear in your heart.”

  “They’re succeeding,” she said, and took a pull on her iced tea.

  “Did you tell the cops?”

  “My husband insists we don’t tell them.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s worried about bad publicity. Everything with him is in terms of PR. That’s how he sees the world.”

  “The choice between avoiding bad publicity and saving your life is obvious to me.”

  “You think our lives are in danger?”

  “Threats tend to escalate, if you don’t take preventative measures—like reporting them to the cops.”

  “That’s how I see it.” She shook her head. “I can’t reason with him.”

  “What did you do with the volleyball?”

  “He threw it out—”

  “What?” cut in Brody in shocked surprise.

  “You didn’t let me finish. I recovered the volleyball and hid it from him.”

  “Good. It always helps to have evidence. Did you also save your dog’s head?”

  “I—I—I can’t recall what we did with that. I think Lyndon took care of it.”

  “By taking care of it, you mean throwing it out?”

  “I hope not. Granted, it was a traumatic sight, especially for my daughter, who doted on Busby. But I wouldn’t throw it out. I can’t speak for Lyndon.”

  “Did you tell the cops about it?”

  “No. Again, Lyndon—Mr. PR himself—was adamant about telling me not to.”

  “I hope he didn’t throw the dog’s head away. It’s proof somebody killed him. Otherwise, who’s to say your dog didn’t run away from home and get lost somewhere?”

  “I don’t know what happened to it,” she said, hangdog.

  “You add all these threats together and you have a strong case against somebody preparing to do you harm.”

  “You mean, I’m gonna be attacked next?” she said, staring at him, wiping the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief again.

  “I don’t know what’s gonna happen next. Don’t let it panic you. That’s the worst thing you can do. I need to take a look at that volleyball.”

  “Why?”

  “I can take the genitals’ DNA to a lab I use. They may be able to trace the owner using the DNA sample.”

  “
‘May be’?”

  “If the owner of the DNA isn’t in the database, it won’t do us any good. Not everybody is in the DNA database.”

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “Do you think the mutilated guy’s dead?” she said.

  Brody knocked back his Guinness and stroked his chin. “Hard to say. If he is still alive, he’s not feeling too good.”

  Deirdre shook her head in despair. “I wish I knew what was going on.”

  “Your harasser knows the more uncertain you are, the more terrified you are. He’s playing on your fears with these mutilations.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Where is Lyndon now?”

  “He’s arranging a fundraiser for the vice president.”

  Brody pricked up his ear. “He’s into politics? I thought he handled actors and artists.”

  “He manages politicians, too.”

  Maybe Peltz was right about Lyndon being involved in espionage, in which case the mutilator could be the Russian SVR, decided Brody. Terror was right up their alley, according to Peltz. However, Brody couldn’t tell Deirdre any of this because he had signed an NDA for Peltz.

  “Do you have any idea what the it refers to in that anonymous letter you got: Where Is It?” said Brody.

  “None.”

  “Does your husband know?”

  “I didn’t show him the letter. I think he may be involved in all of this.”

  “The harassment?”

  “Behind the letter anyway. I can’t believe he would cut off his own dog’s head.”

  “You don’t think the anonymous letter is connected to the other harassment?”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “That’s why I hired you. To find out these things. Because none of this makes sense to me, and it’s scaring me to death.”

  Chapter 46

  Brody drove back to his apartment and told Peltz on his iPhone to meet him.

  Fifteen-odd minutes later, Peltz was at Brody’s door, clad in a dark suit and a subdued necktie. Brody closed the door behind Peltz after Peltz entered the apartment. Brody told him about the decapitated dog and the volleyball with the gruesome appendage that was tossed into the Foxes’ pool.

  “Does that sound like something the Russian SVR would do?” said Brody.

  “Totally. These are terror tactics.”

  “If he’s working for them, why would they terrorize him?”

  “They must think he double-crossed them. Or he’s not giving them the intel they’re seeking.”

  “Why go after his family?”

  “They’re exactly who they would go after. When you want to force somebody to do something, threaten their family. It’s terror 101. The KGB’s Beria wrote the book on terror tactics, and the SVR, their bastard offspring, is using the same book.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Did Fox report the harassment to the cops?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” said Peltz, nodding.

  “Good?”

  “We don’t want the cops involved. This is an FBI matter. The cops’ll only get in the way.”

  “They could give the Foxes additional protection.”

  “The Bureau’s handling their protection. We don’t need help. At the first sign of violence, contact me—not the cops. We have men in place.”

  “Why didn’t they deal with the pilot of the drone that dropped the volleyball in the Foxes’ pool?”

  Peltz shrugged it off. “They saw no reason to tip their hand.”

  “What if one of the Foxes had got hurt?” said Brody, puzzled at the feds’ lack of action.

  “Nobody got hurt. Right?”

  “What about the guy that got castrated?”

  “We have no idea who that is.”

  “Whoever he is he got hurt.”

  “That’s immaterial.”

  Brody did a double take. “You guys have a weird way of looking at things.”

  “We’re protecting the United States of America. In the end, that’s all that counts.”

  Which meant they didn’t care what happened to the Foxes, decided Brody.

  “Do you have the volleyball?” said Peltz, walking up to Brody till they stood inches apart.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “No.”

  Brody wanted to trace the victim’s DNA himself. If he gave it to the feds, he would never find out the victim’s identity. Brody realized to his chagrin that Peltz hadn’t really told him much of anything. The feds weren’t planning on confiding in him. It was a one-way street with them: they took all, and gave nothing in return.

  “Did Fox throw out the volleyball?” said Peltz, concern on his face.

  “Yeah,” said Brody. Which was true as far as it went. Lyndon had tossed out the volleyball.

  “Damn,” muttered Peltz, striding away from Brody.

  “I believe the harassment will accelerate.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You should send more men to guard the Fox house.”

  “We have men in place,” said Peltz, slewing around to face Brody. “Don’t worry about us. You need to help us recover the top-secret documents Fox stole. That’s the agreement we made.”

  “I haven’t found anything.”

  “Lemme know as soon as you find something. Could you show me out now?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Punctilious Peltz, decided Brody. Maybe it was the guy’s way of showing him who was boss. Feebs. Always lording it over people.

  Brody opened his apartment door for Peltz.

  “Remember, you signed an NDA,” said Peltz under his breath on his way out, tightening the screws.

  Chapter 47

  Marcello was bored out of his mind waiting for the mastro di giornata to call him with orders from the capo crimine. Marcello had no way of knowing when he would receive his orders. In the meantime, he had to kill time.

  He decided to practice his marksmanship.

  That night he carried a valise up the stairs to the top of an apartment house on Sunset Boulevard. As he had expected, he had the roof all to himself. This being Los Angeles, where it rarely rained, obviating the need for a pitched roof, the building had a flat tarpaper roof. LA architects didn’t have to worry about drainage, unlike architects in his hometown of San Luca in Calabria.

  Valise in hand, he strode under the starlit night across the roof to the waist-high parapet that overlooked Sunset, a boulevard bustling with motor vehicle traffic, whose headlights wove a winding necklace of bright pearls in the dark.

  The sidewalks below him were awash with the light from sodium vapor streetlamps that highlighted several hookers who were strutting along the cement parading their wares in skimpy, tight outfits, their faces tricked out with mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick, their hips swinging provocatively.

  The platinum blonde wearing a crimson miniskirt, a see-through tube top on her braless breasts, and oxblood vinyl boots caught his eye. Her voluptuous white thighs gleamed in the darkness, as she switched her hips down the sidewalk and ogled the drivers of passing cars in her search for prospective johns.

  Marcello knelt on the roof and unclasped his valise.

  Inside lay a crossbow and bolts he had bought with cash at a local sporting goods store, no questions asked since it was hunting season. It was a state-of-the-art weapon that even sported an infrared scope for night vision.

  Withdrawing the crossbow and a bolt from the valise, he stood up and, holding the front of the bow steady with his foot in its metal stirrup pressed against the tarpaper roof, pulled the string taut with his hand. He raised the crossbow and loaded it with the bolt.

  He heard the blonde call to a customer, soliciting him with her raucous cry of pleasures to come. The object of her solicitation swerved his car a bit and slowed down for a moment as he checked out her image in his rearview mirror, but kept driving down the boulevard.

  Marcello felt glad she had struck out. He didn’t want her t
o leave.

  He lifted his crossbow and sighted along it over the parapet at the blonde hooker.

  In all, there was a gaggle of three hookers—the blonde and two brunettes. One of the brunettes was wearing skintight café au lait stretch pants and an equally tight pink satin blouse, which revealed the outlines of her nipples, while her cohort wore a black leather miniskirt and black fishnet stockings with her yellow halter top. In their late twenties, both brunettes wore red stiletto heels.

  The platinum blonde had tattoos scattered on her arms, but none on her beautiful thighs, Marcello was glad to note.

  He wanted to create a work of art with her to rival that of Botticelli’s “St. Sebastian.”

  He aimed through the crossbow’s infrared telescopic sight at the blonde as she flounced across the sidewalk below. There was no breeze to speak of, eliminating the need for him to compensate for wind drift. He led her as she walked the street. He pulled the trigger, letting fly the bolt.

  The bolt struck his intended target—her gleaming white thigh, just below the hem of her miniskirt.

  She screamed and stared in shock at the bolt sticking out of her thigh. Blood from the wound poured down her leg.

  Through the telescopic sight Marcello watched the bright metallic red blood stream down her milk-white thigh, feeling a tingling in his loins.

  “Shit,” screamed the blonde in anger and pain, hobbling along the sidewalk in her oxblood vinyl boots.

  Her two companions scurried over to her to see what had happened.

  Entranced by the erotic sight of the blood spurting on her lush thigh, Marcello lusted to shoot another bolt into her creamy flesh. He all but forgot to pull back from the parapet and out of sight of pedestrians, who would be searching for the archer lest they become the next targets.

  The eroticism of the moment was lost. He had to beat it. An ambulance would be arriving soon. And the cops.

  He deposited the crossbow into his valise, which he carried to the stairwell. He descended the stairs at his normal pace. If residents saw him rushing down the stairs, they would become suspicious. He didn’t expect to see anyone. Most people were lazy and used the elevator instead of the stairs.

  He reached the street without running into anyone.

  Issuing onto the sidewalk he headed in the direction opposite the hookers, hearing their commotion behind him and an ambulance keening in the distance. He turned off Sunset at the next intersection.