McKuen’s Revenge (9 page)

12

Star power! Tom, Jennifer, Justin, and Kim were all seen. Valets hustled along a five block stretch, secreting vehicles in illegal spaces given a politically-driven bye for several hours.

The McKuens received an invitation to the party because of Amy’s friendship with the hostess, a classmate at USC now married to a famous actor. When Amy suggested they invite Dennis and Liv to go along, McKuen looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“It’ll be fine,” she said.

Predictably Dennis wore cowboy boots and jeans. He told McKuen that since the ensemble set him back nearly five grand, he could slide by. Paired with Liv’s sheer, almost see-through outfit and four inch heels, no one noticed. As she stepped down from the big truck, two valets peeled their eyes away.

For Amy, it was a lovely affair. Friend of the hosts, she knew a dozen other people from the classical music scene. McKuen in tow, she greeted each and exchanged pleasantries. After an hour and a glass of wine, chats became lengthier.

McKuen wanted to catch up with Dennis. Liv’s abduction was out of left field. It was time to pick through the facts. Their wives were engaged with the congregation of socialites, politicians and show business personalities. A look was all it took.

“Bet we could find my truck.”

“Let’s go.” They notified their partners and left.

Carrying drinks, they strolled the travertine walkway. Dennis made it clear they didn’t want to drive away, he just wanted to know where his truck was so he could get something. A twenty dollar bill helped. They found it, he pulled out a slim cigar, made sure he was downwind and lit up. McKuen smiled and pointed.

“Gonna have to quit that.”

“Not if I’m a hundred yards away.”

“Even the smell...” Dennis waved at him.

“Jerky told Zolo he’s tailing Courtney Perez,” he said. “An off-hours project or something.”

McKuen nodded, distracted, thinking he saw movement. He squinted and raised a hand. After a minute, he decided it was nothing. With all the recent problems, no big surprise if he was imagining things.

“Check it out,” Dennis said. “Courtney Perez’s tailing some cop, at least that’s what Jerky thinks. He’s laughing, ‘cause she’s pretty bad at it.” He took a puff, blew it out and smiled.

“A cop? Why?”

“Unknown, weird huh?”

“He better get his story straight. Does he give you guys reports?”

“Jerky? Don’t think he’s that organized, talks to himself a lot. Almost lives in his ride, big old muscle car, like an Olds 88 or something. I’ll ask Zolo, but I doubt we’ll get anything.”

McKuen nodded. From years working with characters in the drug business he knew that a lot of great intelligence came from people who hung out on the margins of society.

Much of the intel was sketchy, however. Picking a few gems out of the street data was an art. A factor in McKuen’s success was lucky guesses. Can’t rely on that.

“Look,” he said, “Liv getting kidnapped is too off the hook.” Dennis nodded. It seemed like some of his rage had faded.

“We gotta start over.” He raised his eyebrows.

Again McKuen got the feeling they were being watched. He looked around. A knobby old oak tree gave them cover. He held up a finger and looked behind it—nothing. The city hummed in the distance. He lowered his voice.

“Some guy wants Christian’s account numbers. He detains Amy and then he bags the necklace. He kills some guys, then he kidnaps Liv and we’re distracted. Then he releases Liv? I don’t know.”

“He didn’t get the piece of paper.”

“Yeah, none of it makes sense.” McKuen closed his eyes. Dennis said nothing, letting him think, their roles well-defined.

McKuen debated whether to tell Dennis he’d called a third party. He was disgusted he couldn’t assemble the puzzle pieces.

“What does Zolo say? He’s still working on this, right?”

“He hasn’t said much,” Dennis said. “Think he’s pissed at himself about Liv.”

“Let’s get him back on track. I’m serious about getting out, but I need to know stuff’s not going to blow up on us.” Dennis nodded and puffed.

“At least there haven’t been any hits for awhile.”

“Yeah well, I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”

They continued talking business, arguing and bullshitting for the better part of an hour. The night was mild and the party wasn’t Dennis’s scene. McKuen could hang, but he was more comfortable talking to his buddy. He figured with the wives otherwise occupied, he and Dennis wouldn’t be missed.

“Back to Jerky,” McKuen said. “Ask anyway, see if you and Zolo can put something together, make some notes. You know me,” he smirked, “be prepared, the happy boy scout.”

Dennis nodded with a wry grin. He turned to go back to the party.

“Saw Celeste Sauvage in there,” McKuen said, “that billionaire running for City Council, trying to make us a campaign issue.”

“Yeah, you told me. Rowwrrr, this is her playground.”

“Got that right.”

Dennis looked around for someplace to dispose of the butt.

“You were never a Boy Scout, were you?”

“Uh, no…”

Their voices faded.

_____

Jen’s phone rang. Great timing. It was a disposable number, the signal. She slipped on a dark jacket.

She circled around the building and walked in, pretending to be coming back from her lunch break. She waved at the sergeant, kept going and walked out the side door into a faint breeze. Cool and humid, it would be foggy by one a.m.

Across the sidewalk and Olympic Boulevard, past some administration buildings, a few steps across Civic Center Drive to the Santa Monica Civic parking lot.

She crouched between two cars, pulled out the .22 and checked the chamber.

Courtney was kneeling among bushes in front of a hotel. She saw the blonde blow through the station doors and scrambled to get up and follow. No time for photos—the girl was moving.

Jerky pretended to be a homeless person, leaning against a chain link fence. No problem, Santa Monica’s a known magnet for the residentially-challenged. He picked up a piece of litter and pretended to read it.

His spot on the sidewalk between a lightpost and traffic relay box afforded a sweeping view. Bing bang boom and he was casually following the women. He smiled to himself. They were going to walk right in front of the Sheriff’s facility. Prudence was advisable. He cut around back.

Jen duckwalked behind an Expedition, then scurried down a row of cars. She had a clear view of the auditorium doors. There! A man in the lobby matched the description. He spoke to a man in uniform, broke away and pushed through the doors.

Courtney wondered where the blonde was. She double checked to make sure the camera’s lens cap was off and the dial was positioned on a low-light setting, and stood at the edge of the parking lot, bent over, leaning on the hood of a car.

Jerky half-walked, half-jogged down a sidewalk. He peered around. Ah! Courtney was at a far corner, glued to the edge of the lot like a hunting dog. He couldn’t see Courtney’s quarry but she’d be somewhere close.

Jen saw the man walking straight at her. It would be too lucky if one of the nearby vehicles was his. But he veered to his right and started down a row.

She ran, knees bent, staying low, hoping to catch up before he found his car. Between a car and truck she caught a flash of movement and the chirp of a remote control.

He turned. She closed in.

He grabbed the door handle. She fired, the
glink
-
glink
of the silenced rounds barely audible above traffic noise.

He was down, dead for sure, two to the head. She found the shells and stuffed them in her jeans pocket. Blood began to pool.

She ran, still bent down, away from the police station. Instinct.

Courtney saw a man walk to the parking lot. Maybe something moved halfway down a row? The man disappeared behind a couple of vehicles. She started in that direction.

The yellow lights over the parking lot were ringed with vapor—poor visibility. Jerky made his way close to the auditorium.

A man walked away from the building to the crowd of cars and trucks. Jerky circled, keeping his distance.

Pico Boulevard bordered the south side of the lot. Jen had to make a decision. A right turn would take her past the back of the auditorium. Still too exposed. To the left was 4
th
Street, an open sidewalk. Too many witnesses.

She had other options—keep running. She jaywalked straight across Pico, jogged a block, hung a right and took off.

Another block then right, she doubled back. Adrenaline flooded her veins. She ran harder.

Courtney continued across the parking lot. She heard a sound like a rubber hammer against a trash can, twice, then nothing but traffic. The sound drew her. She turned left.

She nearly passed him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man on the ground between a car and a truck. Without thinking, she snapped a picture.

She looked at the viewer but movement caught her eye. A blond ponytail burst out of the end of the row, running across Pico.

Courtney looked at the man. He was dead, she couldn’t help him. She hurried in pursuit of the blonde.

Jerky’s height gave him an advantage. Six feet tall, he could track them by hopping. He jogged close to the center of the lot. Closing within thirty yards, he headed in their direction. Anticipate and he could make up some distance.

Jen ran three blocks and slowed after the auditorium. She turned right past a hotel, a block and another right on 4
th
Street. A long circular route, she was making good time.

She walked over the freeway bridge and smiled. The Sears parking lot, scene of the first killing, was on her right. Just over two weeks, a lot of action. Kind of fun, really.

Confusion again. Courtney looked in all directions. The blonde had disappeared into thin air. How?

Courtney was at a corner in a residential neighborhood. A streetlight had burned out and it was dark. Now several blocks from her car, she resigned herself to walking back.

Oh! The dead man’s image flashed. She stopped at the next intersection, thinking. What if the blond detective was at the crime scene?

It would be really hard. Courtney didn’t express herself well on a good day. In the excitement they would probably arrest her.

She walked past a man waiting for his dog to do its business. He stared at her camera. She trudged on.

Jerky had lost Courtney and the blonde. On one hand, a failure. He was extremely good at what he did, but caution got the best of him. Well, at least nobody noticed.

Jen repeated her routine, stopped at the women’s locker room, hid the Ruger in her locker, washed her hands and face and brushed her hair. She inspected herself for ten seconds and pronounced her appearance good enough for government work.

She breezed through the swinging door and looked at her phone. Twenty-eight minutes. Perfect.

Endorphins shot through her. The rush put her in the center of her being. She pulled up a form on her monitor and took slow, deep breaths, preparing for the phone to ring.

_____

Liv glanced around the room. Where’s Dennis?

She was chatting with the host, an older gentleman who owned several commercial properties. For as long as she could remember, she had seen him on television and in the movies, one of her favorite actors, one of everybody’s favorites. Warm manner and expressions captivating, he told her a story about luck.

“A studio optioned a screenplay by an older, penniless scriptwriter.” He angled his head as if spilling a trade secret.

“If the movie was made, the writer would earn a quarter million.” He stepped back, straightened up and unfolded two fingers of each hand.

“The green light was given—what luck!” Back to the conspiratorial stance, leaning in slightly.

“At the last minute, while the studio chief was on a junket to New York, a rich producer bought him a night with the city's most expensive call girl. This was in exchange for giving
his
picture the go-ahead.” He made a classic sad face, frowning and pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“It bumped the production of the older writer's work off the schedule. Bad luck!” Almost in a crouch now, he whispered.

“The writer fell into depression and succumbed to a mild stroke. Even worse luck!” He straightened up.

“Finally two years later, a rival studio picked up the script in turnaround.” He smiled.

“The picture got made and became a huge hit.” Raising an eyebrow, he cocked his head and lifted a shoulder.

“Good luck, bad luck—you never know.”

When he asked for her story, she poured on the charm. She gave him a short version, ending, “I finally decided that skateboarding could only support a half dozen people, ever. I got off the street and got my MA in Library Science.”