pink peppered Chandler’s cheeks as he recovered from his scare. “Still, it means a lot to me,” he said.
Scalise leaned back in his chair. He was the picture of nonchalance as he blew out another smoke ring and sipped his scotch. Expensive scotch was something he knew well. A handful of downtown restaurant owners were on his collection list. These guys were degenerate gamblers and in deep to Penza, and whenever they came up short, Scalise, in exchange for giving them an extra week and not breaking their arms, would confiscate a bottle or two of their best single malts from the bar, while his former partner “Irish” Colgan would get a steak dinner packed up to go, his price for letting the owner keep his teeth.
“What else was I going to do?” he asked. “I’ve known Billy Dunn since forever. If he’s going to ask me to do this favor for you, then that’s what I’m going to do.” His eyes dulled as he puffed out more cigar smoke. “I should’ve called you three weeks ago when Billy first asked, but I got busy. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize. I know you’re getting sick of me thanking you, so I’ll just say it one last time. I can’t possibly tell you how thrilled I was when I got your call today.”
The thin smile Scalise showed wasn’t much different than a cold-blooded reptile’s. He winked to show what he was about to say was bull. “I don’t know why you think hanging out with me is going to help you with that movie role. You got the wrong idea about what I do, ’cause I’m nothing more than an average schmo working a job. Whoever told you I’m connected with the mob is nuts.”
Chandler didn’t need the wink to know that Vincent Scalise was an important player in Big Joe Penza’s organization. From what he’d been told, Scalise did everything from breaking legs to robbing banks.
“Sure, but I heard you know people,” Chandler said, being as diplomatic as he could about it.
Another wink from Scalise. “I know some big talkers. Nothing more than knockaround guys who think they’re bigshots. These clowns tell a good story, but that’s all it is—a story. You’ll meet some of them at the poker game later tonight.”
A wind chime noise sounded. Scalise wrestled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and squinted at a new text message. “We got to wrap up this party. There’s an errand I need to do. Afterward I’ll take you to that poker game I’ve been telling you about.”
Scalise drained what was left in his glass, and Chandler did the same. The two men walked out of the private room with cigars in hand. They collected dirty looks as they walked through the main dining room, but even if people didn’t know who Scalise was, they were still smart enough not to say anything to him.
Chapter 11
Van Nuys, October 8, 2001
Cynthia Leary lay naked on her back, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, with a pair of socks stuffed in her mouth to keep her from yelling for help. He sat down next to her and touched her cheek and felt the coolness of the skin. His hand moved down her body, and she shuddered when he let his fingers linger on her left nipple. It was rock hard. Could she possibly be aroused right now? He had to find out the answer to that! He reached down and felt that she was as dry as sandpaper. No, it wasn’t sexual arousal that made her nipples so hard, but fear. That was good. He so much preferred fear.
He didn’t want to get any blood on his clothing so he stood up and removed his shirt and pants. Being a gentleman, he asked her if she’d mind if he took off his underwear, and since she didn’t tell him not to, he stripped off his briefs. It was no surprise that his penis stood erect and was far harder than her nipples. More than that, it was throbbing. You couldn’t blame him for being excited. It had been excruciating waiting all these years to begin the Nightmare Man’s new killing spree. When he took the first victim five days ago he was like a teenage boy having sex for the first time, rushing through it so fast that he barely had time to enjoy the experience. The same wasn’t going to be true tonight. He would use a slow hand with Cynthia and make sure to squeeze every drop of pain out of her. Just thinking of that brought him close to climaxing. He excused himself and used her bathroom to take care of the matter at hand, flushing away any potential DNA evidence.
When he returned to her cramped bedroom, he apologized for his absence and then emptied the contents of the gym bag he had brought, lining up each item on the bed alongside her. He made sure to put the metal cage holding the rat right next to her head. The rat inside was oh-so-hungry. Angry, also. He felt his heart flutter as he saw how liquid with fear her eyes had become.
Cynthia Leary. Twenty-seven. A hopeful actress working as a waitress. Her small one-bedroom Van Nuys apartment was what a Realtor might generously call cozy, at least if the Realtor was a big enough liar. The bedroom was smaller than most jail cells and could barely fit her single bed. Well, that would just make tonight all that more intimate.
There was enough ambient light in the room to see her long, skinny body. He doubted she’d had a good meal in years, and not just so she could pay rent for this dump, but more because she hoped to be famous someday. All that scrimping and saving and starving herself to chase after her dream, and this was what it came down to. How terribly sad.
He bent over so he could whisper in her ear.
“You’ll be famous,” he promised her. “Everybody will soon be talking about you. They’ll be showing your picture on TV and in the newspapers. After they find you, of course.”
He had to add that last caveat. It had been five days since he took this spree’s first victim, and still no mention about it on the news. Eventually that would change, but it had annoyed him to no end. He was so looking forward to seeing the fear that these murders would be causing. That was half the fun, after all.
He picked up the needle-nose pliers he’d brought, climbed on top of her so that he straddled her, and took his time pulling off her fingernails. He made sure to work even slower later, and he made a conscious effort to liberally use the smelling salts he’d brought.
This was the way it was meant to be. After all these years, he finally discovered his true self.
Finally. Finally.
Chapter 12
Los Angeles, the present
Lori Fletcher lay curled on the couch watching one of the recent Furious movies and fighting to keep her eyelids open. She shouldn’t have been struggling so hard to stay awake. It wasn’t that late, and all the noise and action and Vin Diesel’s biceps should’ve been enough to keep her from drifting off. But it had been an emotionally wrought few weeks—really a rollercoaster swinging her from the depths of despair as she was convinced that an unknown boogeyman was going to get her, to feeling safe after she adopted Lucky. While she might’ve been sleeping soundly once that big galoot came into her life, she also had to make up for many troubled nights before that. Exhaustion overtook her. The last snippet of the movie she remembered were cars being airdropped into the Caucasus Mountains, and then the world faded on her.
The next thing she was aware of was a hellacious racket, something much louder than the Furious movie still playing on the TV. In her semi-conscious state, all she could think was that a wild beast had gotten into her apartment. As she became more awake she realized the noise was coming from Lucky. She nearly fell off the couch as she stumbled to the source of the noise, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest.
Sure enough, Lucky barked with such violence that he was nearly frothing at the mouth, hackles raised along his spine. For all the good it would do, since the dog outweighed her and was
