“Can I borrow Morris for a few minutes?” Stonehedge asked. “I’d like to talk shop with him.”
Natalie pursed her lips, obviously curious about what that could be about, but she smiled and told Stonehedge that of course he could borrow her husband. “It will give me a chance to ask Brie where she bought her lovely outfit.”
Morris, with Parker in tow, followed Stonehedge toward the back of his property where they could talk in private. They stopped a few yards from the edge of the cliff overlooking the beach below.
“They’re making a movie about the Malibu Butcher,” Stonehedge said. “Well, really about that whack job who dealt himself into the game—”
“Allen Perlmutter.”
“Yeah. But even though Perlmutter is the focus of the movie, the Malibu Butcher is a major role, and the producers are offering it to me.”
“You’ll finally get to play a serial killer.”
“If I take the part.”
“Are you considering it?”
“I am. The script’s got a lot of craziness in it, but it’s also crazy good. As long as you’re okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were knee-deep in that swamp, after all.”
Stonehedge was right. Morris wasn’t thrilled to hear that a movie was being made about that Malibu Butcher psycho, or really three psychos if you included Perlmutter and Sheila Proops, but he had known from the beginning it was inevitable that Hollywood would want to do something with it.
“Someone’s going to take the part,” Morris said, shaking his head. A harsh chuckle escaped from his lips. “Very meta of them wanting you to play the Butcher since you were one of his intended victims.”
“Yeah, but that’s one of the reasons they want me. Having me play him would be a wet dream for their publicist.”
“No doubt. You know that at least half the witnesses we talked to thought he looked like you?”
“I read about that,” Stonehedge admitted. “I don’t know. From pictures I saw of him, I don’t see the resemblance.”
“That’s only because the photos they ran in the papers were taken after Perlmutter mutilated him.” Morris’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “What’s my character’s name in the movie?”
“Mort Slate.”
“I guess that’s somewhat imaginative. How much is it like me?”
“Surprisingly close. Last I heard they’re talking to Woody Harrelson to play your character. As far as I’m concerned, that would be pitch-perfect casting.”
Morris Brick was under no illusions about his physical appearance, and how mismatched he and Natalie were—Nat being a slender, dark-haired beauty, while he was at best comical looking. He also knew that with his short, compact body, spindly legs, big ears, thick, long nose, and thinning hair he proved the old adage of a dog owner resembling his pet. Even if they dyed Woody Harrelson’s hair dark brown, the only way the actor would resemble Morris would be if someone squinted extra hard. And even then that person would need poor eyesight. But he chose not to argue the matter.
“You’ve got my blessing,” Morris said. “Mazel tov.”
“Thanks, Morris. I appreciate it. Do you want to consult on the film? Nobody knows the real story better than you, at least nobody alive—”
“Other than Sheila Proops.”
“Maybe, but they’d have to find her first. What do you say? I could make it a condition on my taking the role, but I’m sure they’d be on board regardless.”
Movie consulting jobs were good money, but Morris wanted to change MBI’s image from a firm that tracked down perverse serial killers to one that handled more staid corporate work.
“Let me think about it,” Morris said.
Parker, who’d been quiet up until then, let out a couple of impatient grunts.
“Somebody wants to get back to the food,” Stonehedge observed.
The three of them returned to the party.
Chapter 6
Morris reached blindly to turn off the clock radio, then collapsed back onto the bed. His mouth and throat tasted as if he had gargled with sawdust, and his head throbbed as if it were being squeezed in a vise. Too many of those blueberry mojitos, he thought. Too much rich food also. But damn, those charbroiled oysters were good!
He lay on his back, listening to Natalie’s rhythmic breathing as she continued to sleep, and then struggled to open his eyes against the morning light. When he heard a rustling noise from the hallway, followed by a soft whimper, he remembered that because Nat didn’t have to be in her office until eleven, he had decided he’d leave later himself, and so had set the alarm for eight instead of the usual six a.m. If he had planned things better he would’ve arranged for Parker’s twenty-four-year-old occasional dog walker, Kat McKinty, to have shown up earlier that morning. But he hadn’t, so he had better get out of bed pronto to take Parker outside.
Morris tried to be quiet so he wouldn’t wake Natalie as he stumbled out of bed and slipped on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. He grabbed his cell phone and keys, and when he opened the bedroom door he fought to keep Parker from charging into the room. The dog let out an impatient yelp and jumped up and tried to lick him in the face.
“I know, buddy, I’m late this morning. No excuses. Let’s get you outside.”
The word outside elicited several excited grunts from the bull terrier, who proceeded to race down the stairs. Morris badly wanted coffee right then, but that would have to wait. He made a quick pit stop for himself, then continued on to the front door where he found Parker waiting with his leash in his mouth. This was their morning ritual: a tug-of-war before Parker would let go. This time Parker gave up the leash right away.
They were a block away from home before Morris turned on his cell phone. When he checked the text messages, a coolness filled his head as he saw that there was a long string of them from Doug Gilman at the mayor’s office. The first message had been sent an hour ago, and read “Call me right away. It’s important.” The next three were similar, except that “important” had become “critical.” Before Morris could read any more of them, his phone rang. The caller ID showed Los Angeles Mayor’s Office.
This had to be about a horrific murder. That was the only reason Gilman would be this anxious to get ahold of him. Morris considered not answering the call and simply sending Gilman a text reminding him that MBI was no longer taking on homicide investigations. Instead, though, Morris tapped on the answer button. Before he could say anything more than, “I’m sorry, Doug—”, the mayor’s deputy assistant interrupted him, asking if Morris had seen his text messages.
“I was just going through them when you called.”
“You haven’t seen my last text?”
“No,
