Malicious. Jacob Stone
skillset than making a movie, he was certainly talented at what he did. Besides, after dinner they could have their tumble in the sack, and she could really use that right now.
“Sold,” she said. “I need to obviously shower and dress first—”
“I’ll wait here for you.” Somewhat magnanimously, he offered, “If for whatever reason you change your mind, I’ll understand completely, but if that happens could you send out your doorman to let me know so I don’t sit here for hours?”
He is just so cute. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she promised.
The killer watched as she walked away. He had to admit that she looked nice from behind in her running shorts and tank top. Beautiful legs, too. Long and slender and toned. She turned to look back at him and wave, and he smiled and waved also. Once she disappeared inside her building, his genial smile became something different.
He had done his research and so he knew she’d be sitting on this bench after her run, just as he knew how she’d react to everything he had said. He had read enough interviews with her to know that she’d come back with that idiotic comment regarding the movie The Day After Yesterday (a movie he had no intention of ever seeing), which would make her feel oh-so-clever. He further knew that she had never made it onto the A-list and was only being paid scale, and that the idea of being paid a hundred grand and a healthy percentage of the gross would leave her salivating. And of course, like all B-list actors and actresses in this city, she would kill to be seen at Luzana’s.
The killer was proud of himself and the performance that he gave. He had been convincingly self-effacing, as if he were actually in awe of her. He’d even been able to blush on command—at least he thought he had. It would be hard to know for certain without a mirror, but he had felt a hotness flushing his cheeks that seemed to indicate that he had succeeded. The book he had read about method acting had helped. It had allowed him to slip into character and stay there until she had left. He had her fooled completely, no doubt about it.
When thirty minutes passed without her returning, the killer wasn’t so sure anymore about how much he had fooled her. After forty minutes, he started wondering if he had made a mistake. An uneasiness began working its way into his chest. She was an important piece in his plans. He needed her. Was it possible that he had overplayed his hand? Could he have blown it by mentioning a doorman? Did that make her start wondering how he knew her building had one?
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Why’d he have to mention anything about her doorman! What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had her sold hook, line, and sinker, so why’d he have to shoot off his mouth like that?
He sat frozen, not quite sure what to do. The only way to reach her condo was to first get past the doorman and the building’s security system. Because of his disguise he didn’t care whether he left the police a video recording of himself on the building’s surveillance system, but the doorman was an entirely different matter since he hadn’t brought a weapon, at least not a conventional one. He could theoretically use the hypodermic needle that was meant for Brandley, but then what? If he were to kill the doorman now it would disrupt his later plans!
His uneasiness had turned into a full-blown panic, but then he spotted Brandley leaving her building. Her hair was done up, and she wore a sheer green dress that showed off her legs and black stiletto pumps that accentuated her calves. She was certainly dressed to be noticed with a strand of pearls around her neck and long, dangling gold earrings. Or some might say dressed to kill. He snickered inwardly as he thought about the truth. Dressed to be killed.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I hope you didn’t think I was standing you up?”
“You had me worried for a bit,” the killer admitted.
“I’m so sorry, but I wanted to look decent for tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” he said. More inward snickering as he added, “You’ll be turning heads later, no question about it.”
“You’re just too kind.” She batted her eyes at him. “Were you able to make reservations for Luzana’s?”
“Yep. I’ve got us a table for seven-thirty. That should give us more than enough time to go over the storyboards and script.”
The killer stood, and Heather took his arm. The killer pointed out his Mercedes sedan parked on the street, the trunk of which was more than large enough to hold Heather Brandley’s body.
“You’ll be driving me in style,” Heather said, pleased with how her day was turning out.
The killer didn’t bother to correct her. As they made their way to the Mercedes, he deftly removed the hypodermic needle from his inside suit jacket pocket. Heather didn’t notice it until it was too late for her to even scream.
Chapter 4
Charlie Bogle entered the Long Beach police station on West Broadway and informed the desk sergeant he was there to see Detective Vernon Howard. The sergeant sized Bogle up quickly.
“You used to be on the force?” he asked.
“Sixteen years with the LAPD.”
The sergeant’s expression showed he had guessed that. “Name?”
Bogle told him his name, and the sergeant got on the phone, had a quick conversation, then told him Howard was waiting for him. “Squad room’s upstairs. Take the first door on your right.”
Bogle thanked him, went up the stairs, entered the squad room, and spotted Howard sitting at a desk. When they had worked together years earlier, Howard had looked like he could’ve been an NFL linebacker. Now he was even bigger—not fat, but much wider, almost as if he had doubled in size. As Bogle approached him, Howard sat motionless with his thick, heavy arms crossed over his chest, his face locked into a deadpan expression. It wasn’t until Bogle reached the desk that Howard at last broke out in a wide grin and offered his meaty hand, which was nearly the size of a baseball glove. Bogle’s own hand disappeared inside it.
“Damn, Charlie, how long’s it been?” Howard asked.
“How long have you been working in Long Beach?”
“Ten years.”
“That’s how long it’s been.”
Howard’s expression drifted into something wistful. “How’s Jenny and the kids?”
“We divorced five years ago. Her idea. Tom and Eileen are both in college, and even though they’re local it’s still costing me an arm and a leg.”
“Ah, man, sorry to hear about the split.”
Bogle shrugged. “I can’t blame her. I wasn’t the easiest guy to be married to. How about you and Marcie and your brood?”
“She’s still busting my balls every day, and will be until the day they lower me into the ground. Boys are behaving themselves. Last fall, Vernon Jr. started his freshman year at UCLA. Got himself a football scholarship. Defensive end.”
“Wow. That’s terrific.”
Howard beamed, showing his pride. Then his expression turned serious and he asked, “So you’re here to talk about Karl Crawford’s disappearance. The wife hire you?”
“Yeah.”
Howard’s eyelids lowered a bit, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He grabbed a folder from his desk, and told Bogle they’d talk in one of the interrogation rooms. “You want some coffee?” he offered.
“Is it any better than what we used to have on Wilcox Ave.?”
“Some.”
“Sure, I’ll have a cup.”
On the way to the interrogation room they stopped to pour themselves coffee, and Bogle, remembering what the Wilcox Ave. precinct coffee had tasted like, grabbed