Authors: Chris Frank,Skip Press
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #mystery, #Hard-Boiled
“I hate to admit it,” Lisa said, “but I love all those crime scene and behavioral analysis shows on television. I keep trying to put myself in their shoes and think, what would the writers have them say next about our guy. That he’s probably a 30-40 year old white guy who blends into the background of every room he enters? He is obviously intelligent and methodical, but no one takes him seriously.”
Jim looked at her in disbelief.
“What?” she asked. “That’s what they say about everyone.”
Now Jim smiled. He put his cup on the counter and pulled her close. Lisa sat down her cup, looked into his eyes, and straightened his tie.
“You know,” she began, “when you go to work today, you’re going to see all those crime scene and behavioral analysis guys in person.”
He kissed her on the forehead.
“I know.”
“You’re going to see all the evidence.”
“I know.”
“Are you excited?”
“A little. What are your plans for the day?”
“I’ve got to get to the studio and prepare the follow ups on our three victims.”
Lisa turned to the sink and began washing out their cups.
Jim was silent for a moment, staring at the TV. When he turned to speak, Lisa pivoted in his direction and put her arms around his waist.
“Look. I know that this ‘us’ thing, if there is an ‘us’ is new and that you had a life before I came along, because, you know, I had a life, too, and that you’re starting a new job and that’s really great. I mean, it’s really great, but this thing…”
Jim placed his right index finger softly across her lips.
“Do you want to meet for dinner tonight, after the show?”
“Yes, I would.” She grinned.
“Good. I’ll call you later.”
He kissed her on the lips.
“Got to go.”
Lisa stole a glimpse of the clock on the wall.
“I thought that you started at nine. Does Detective Jovian not want to be tardy on the first day of school?”
“Very funny. I’m going to run by the Edwards place before I head downtown. I want to show her my badge.”
Day 4: 7:26 a.m.
He rang the doorbell to Alice Edwards’ home and waited for a response. If the regular delivery boy was on time, he had two minutes at best to get inside the house. If he was late, there would be more breathing room. If he was early, well, for his sake he’d better hope he wasn’t early.
Alice’s voice shattered the illusion of white noise that the handful of narcotics had created in his head.
“Who’s there?”
“Newspaper, Mrs. Edwards.”
The door opened and Alice Edwards stood inches away from his face. She gave him a disapproving once-over.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the new delivery boy.”
“Where’s Jimmy?”
Alice stuck her head through the door and briefly looked up and down the street.
“Jimmy’s not here today.”
“Well, give it then,” she said as she proffered her hand.
As he reached his hand towards her, she stared intently at his face.
“You look familiar. Where do I know you from?”
Alice Edwards was unable to say more. He grabbed her left wrist with his left hand and pulled her into a punch with his right that crushed the bridge of her nose. The blow sent Alice flying backwards into the hallway, where she struck her head against a table that held a vase filled with sunflowers. As he started inside, he looked around and saw Jimmy make the turn on his bicycle from Pear to Peach. He calmly picked up his Target purchase, entered the house and closed the door behind him. Within seconds, there was a knock on the door that went unanswered, only to be followed by another. Then silence. He watched from the bay window as Jimmy left a neatly folded newspaper on Alice’s top step and ran back to his bike. Jimmy hesitated on the sidewalk and looked briefly at the house, in a mild state of confusion; then he rode off, his bag laden with the morning news. He watched Jimmy leave and turned to Alice, lying there, unconscious on the floor. There would be no more phone calls from Alice Edwards. You know, he thought, maybe the West Covina police department should give him a medal.
Day 4: 8:05 a.m.
Detective Jovian pulled into a spot across the street from the Edwards house and checked his teeth in the rear view mirror. There was nothing that Jim hated more than talking to someone with food in his teeth; he felt that it was rude and classless. Jim also did not like men who exhibited long nasal hair, but he had given himself a trim in the bathroom that morning, so he was good on that front. He had devoured a bagel, with sesame seeds, that he bought at the convenience store and he wanted to make sure that his teeth were clean before approaching Alice. He must have looked like a kook, furiously working the dental floss as passersby slowed to check on his progress. The newspaper kid on the bike gave him a quick glance, the lady who delivered the milk stared at least five seconds, and the guy with the limp gazed at him for so long that it looked like he had seen a ghost.
Fuck them
, Jim thought.
My teeth come first, public opinion, a distant second.
He exited the car and headed towards the door.
He knocked once and then twice.
“Mrs. Edwards, Offi… It’s Detective Jovian. I have my badge.”
Jim rang the bell and then knocked again.
She must be out
, he thought. He turned and walked to his car. He had almost reached the street when he stopped. Out at 7:30 in the morning? Call it instinct or cop intuition, but something didn’t feel right. Jim turned around, walked across the lawn, and rounded the building. He looked in all the windows but saw nothing. He completed the loop and stood on the lawn and stared at the bay window. The curtains were drawn, but were of a flimsy lace material. By cupping his hands to create the equivalent of blinders around his eyes, he was able to peer through. He saw her sitting in a chair, facing out on the lawn she loved so much. What the hell? What was that on her head? He knocked on the window with his left hand, and unholstered his gun with his right.
“Mrs. Edwards! Mrs. Edwards, it’s the police.”
Then he got a better look, and took off running. There was a sick feeling in his stomach as he bolted up the steps. With the type of strength exhibited by a mother protecting an endangered child, Jim kicked open the front door in one try. He found Alice Edwards sitting in her rocking chair, a bamboo birdcage jammed over her head and a knife protruding from her chest. He felt for a pulse and though she was still very warm, there was no evidence that her heart was still pumping blood. Jim called for backup and then, in disgust and frustration, let loose a primal scream when he saw that over her heart, impaled by the knife, was a sheet of paper which bore the number ‘
four’
.
Day 4: 8:35 a.m.
Alice Edwards had been a close call. Too close. He did not like the man with the dark hair. This was the second day in a row that the man had appeared at the Edwards home; they both apparently kept the same schedule. In all likelihood, the man was either a cop or a reporter and he didn’t like either. Except Gisele; Giselle he liked. He knew that there would potentially be close calls, especially during an improvisation, and he was prepared for that. He was not prepared for the dark-haired man to see his face. He had removed Alice Edwards from the equation for that very reason. If he had to, he would extend the same courtesy to the man so obsessed with flossing his teeth. He looked at the piece of paper on which he had jotted down the dark-haired man’s license plate.
“Let’s find out who you are,” he said to himself. “Perhaps you smoke a pipe.”
Day 4: 9:00 a.m.
Lisa paced back and forth in her office at KVTM news, getting more agitated by the minute. Where the fuck was Milt? She must have called him ten times and nothing. Something came over the news wire that there was another murder in West Covina and she had nobody available for the shoot. She was pissed. If she missed this story, especially if it was linked to the others, that son of a bitch Milt would never work for this station again. She wanted to call Jim but figured that if it was connected, he already knew. Plus, she didn’t want to be that girl; the one who constantly called her man while he was on the job. She picked up the phone and tried Milt one more time.
Why aren’t you picking up
, she wondered,
why aren’t you picking up your fucking phone?
She got no answer.
Day 4: 9:03 a.m.
Milt slipped into the Los Angeles offices of World News Network, or WNN as they liked to be called, with a memory stick in his hand and a price tag in his mind. WNN was based out of Miami, Florida but had a large representation in L.A., occupying four floors of the old Nieman-Marcus building on Roxbury in Beverly Hills. Amy Rogers had been an assistant producer with WNN for all of three weeks when Milt shook her hand and said hello. She still had stars in her eyes after landing this gig in the entertainment capitol of the world. Milt had dollars signs in his eyes and thoughts of a one-way ticket out of his shithole life. Amy led him to the elevator and then to her office, where they sat down to start the negotiation.
“Milt, can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks, I kind of want to get this thing started,”
“What thing is that?”
“Listen, lady, I don’t have time for bullshit. I have footage that will knock you on your ass. Shit that nobody has except maybe the cops.”
“And what does this ‘shit’ pertain to?”
“This ‘shit’ pertains to the recent rash of murders that seem to have popped up all over L.A. and how I can prove that all three were pulled off by the same guy.”
Amy sat back in her chair; she wanted to explode with enthusiasm but, as she had learned during the executive training program in Denver last month, she needed to negotiate with her adversary from a position of strength. As such, her first step was to casually question Milt’s veracity. She cleared her throat before speaking.
“You’re saying you have footage that links all three murders?”
“You bet your candy ass I’m saying it.”
Candy ass? Amy had decided this was perhaps the most loathsome man she’d met yet in L.A., but he probably had the goods. So she smiled and pressed on.
“And you believe it insinuates that there is a serial killer on the loose in L.A.?”
“Not insinuates. I got grade-A, undisputable proof.”
Milt accentuated his braggadocio by putting his feet on Amy’s desk and interlocking his fingers behind his head. The downside to this maneuver was that he accidentally brushed against the fresh suture line on the top of his skull, which, in turn, caused him to wince.
“How is it possible that you are the only person who knows this?”
“Must be lucky,” Milt smirked.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Milt took his feet off the desk and got up close and personal with the assistant producer.
“I don’t give a fuck what you believe. I got a memory stick in my hand that I’m going to sell to the highest bidder. If you guys don’t want it, I’ll go somewhere else.”
Amy backtracked.
“Mr. Adams, I am not in a position to give you money.”
Milt countered, “Then who the fuck is?”
“Well,” said Amy, “I could call my boss…”
Milt picked up the phone and handed it to her.
“Get your boss on the phone and tell him to get his ass down here right now. He or she has five minutes and then I’m going to TMZ or FOX.”
“But…”
Milt stared at his watch.
“Four minutes, fifty-five seconds.”
Amy dialed furiously. Milt sat back down and whispered to Amy.
“Tell him to bring a checkbook and a cappuccino.”
Day 4: 9:15 a.m.
Ding-dong the witch is dead.
That phrase ran though his mind a few times when thinking about Alice Edwards and her untimely death. Jim leaned against his car and watched the lab guys do their job. He had seen Roy and Stan about ten minutes ago; they’d greeted him with hugs and had been very friendly. At least until he told them of his promotion, at which point they both had reports to file and evidence to catalog. He really wanted to get downtown and see how far they had gotten on identifying this asshole but now he would be tied up for who knew how long. Jim took a chance that Captain Jones would want to be informed of Alice’s death, so he called his office immediately after he called the West Covina station. He was right; Mary the secretary patched him directly to the Captain, who told Jim to stay put and that he was on his way.
It had been a while since Captain Jones had been at a fresh crime scene. While he examined the dead Mrs. Edwards with the birdcage on her head and the knife in her heart, the Captain announced that if he ever found the son of a bitch who did this, he would rip off his head and piss down his throat. Meanwhile, there was Jim Jovian to deal with.
“How in God’s name did you find yourself here at the murder scene when you should have been downtown, starting your first day at Homicide?”