James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“She got violent?”

“Colin said she practically trashed the place. Hit him in the head with a frying pan.” Then it dawned on him. “Wait, you don’t think Abby did this?”

“Just trying to narrow down the suspect list,” Ryan said. “What about other people who might have wanted to hurt him; were there other women, maybe someone with a grudge?”

“There were plenty of other women, Colin was a total slut and proud of it. But lately they’ve all been happy hookups, if you know what I mean. He never mentioned any trouble.”

Syd asked, “No threatening phone calls, letters, anything like that?”

“Not that I know of; Colin was a great guy. Everybody loved him.”

“Not quite everybody,” Ryan said. “Let me ask you something, did Colin have an American Express card?”

“Sure, a Platinum card. He loved to flash it, thought it impressed his dates.”

“Is it here?” Syd asked. “Or had he mentioned losing it recently?”

“No, we went out to Flemings for dinner the other night and Colin used it to pay the check. I mean, I think I remember him putting it back in his wallet. Why, is it missing?”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Look, we need to go through Colin’s things: computer, phone book, bills. We could get a warrant, but…”

“No, no problem. It’s all right here.”

“And next of kin,” Syd said. “Who should we notify?”

“His mom’s dead, but his dad is still alive, lives in Orange County.”

Syd asked, “Do you have his number?”

Dodd shook his head. “But it’ll be on his cell. Did you find that?”

“It was in the car,” Syd said.

“He kept everything on his iPhone,” Dodd said. “But he’s got a phone book, too; I’ll get it.” Dodd got up to fetch it. Ryan’s phone rang.

“Ryan.”

“The plot thickens,” Liz said from her examining room. “I’m looking down at the remains of Colin Wood, and you’ll never guess what I found when I took his shirt off.”

“Another penis?”

Liz snorted a laugh. “Funny. No, I found something carved into his chest. The number 2. My guess, it was probably the same blade that Benihana’d his penis.”

Syd saw the shock on Ryan’s face. “What? What is it?”

“The number 2 was carved into Colin Wood’s chest,” Ryan said checking to make sure Dodd was out of earshot.

“No shit,” Syd said, the implication clear. “Which means the killer’s done it before.”

“And will probably do it again,” Ryan said.

Syd’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer, Ryan. How cool is that!”

She stood naked in the shower. The make-up washed off. The nail and toe polish removed. The green contacts taken out. The Lady in Red was stripped bare, restored to her natural state.

Her name was Alice Waterman. She was pretty in a fresh-scrubbed, studious sort of way. But Alice never thought of herself as pretty. She thought of herself as smart. It had been beaten into her head ever since she was a little girl growing up in Santa Ana, California. Her brains were going to get her into a great college, good career and, one day, a solid marriage.

Her dad worked at the nearby Knotts Berry Farm theme park; he did maintenance on the thrill rides. Her mom worked at Sears in ladies apparel. A typical hard working blue collar family barely getting by, but they had a dream, a dream that one day their smart, gifted daughter would join the corporate culture as an executive and be able to live a life of privilege and luxury. And to succeed in a world run by men, her father told her she had to be able to compete with men out of the office, too. So while her friends took dance lessons, Dad taught her golf. He took her hunting; she even learned to box.

Alice wasn’t popular in high school. She was heavy; judged a little plump if you were kind, fat if you were the typical high school kid. And the extra weight hid the simple beauty of the face that would one day emerge.

She hung with the nerds, and the boys liked her because she was promiscuous. She started giving hand jobs in eighth grade, blow jobs freshman year and was sleeping with a variety of boys by her sophomore year. But she dreamt of running with the cool kids, and even though word had spread that she was easy, there were plenty of prettier girls willing to put out. Alice was sentenced to high school Siberia and was miserable.

Alice turned off the water, pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. The bathroom was tiny and smelled of mildew. The wallpaper was peeling away and the bowl of the once-white toilet bowl was stained a disgusting yellow. The sink was cracked and the counter was barely big enough to hold her prescription bottles. She even had to open the bathroom door so she’d have room to dry herself with the coarse towel.

But it was her bathroom and hers alone. She didn’t have to share it with anyone, a definite improvement over her circumstances for the last few years. The dingy studio apartment, one of eight units above an army surplus store on Vine Street in Hollywood, smelled too, courtesy of the Thai fast food joint next door. But the apartment was hers alone. She didn’t have a roommate. She could eat whenever she wanted. She could come and go as she pleased because the door locked from the inside, not the outside.

So much better than the fucking Institute.

Her parents had visited the apartment when she first moved in a month ago, and were disgusted. Her dad offered her money to get a nicer place. But she didn’t want any more of his money. His money was their money and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Her mom had noticed the bottles of pills and Alice told her they were antidepressants prescribed at the Institute. No reason to freak her out with the truth; Stage IV breast cancer metastasized to the liver, lungs, bone and brain. The doctors told her she had six months to live, maybe a little longer with luck.

So, little girl, what did you do with the last six months of your life? Why I got even with the dirty bastards who ruined my life.

Two more men had to die. Two more souls rendered to balance the scales of justice.

Alice walked into the cramped living room/dining room/kitchen/bedroom. Her war room. Four pictures were pinned to the dingy white walls. The late Colin Wood was picture number two. She picked up a red magic marker, drew a circle around his face, then a slash through the middle.

The picture to the immediate left of Colin also had a circle and slash scrawled across his face. Victim number one, Zachary Stone. He had been as easy to seduce as Colin. Not surprising, he was another horn dog asshole.

Stone was a lawyer.

The lawyer.

The cocksucker who orchestrated the Great Escape.

That’s why he had to die first.

Stone lived in Newport Beach. He had a fancy suite of offices, drove a Silver Cloud convertible, wore three-thousand-dollar suits, got two-hundred-dollar haircuts, lived on the beach in an eight-million-dollar home and dated Southern California’s most beautiful woman. He was slick, handsome and rich with the three most important ingredients for success: intelligence, charisma and ambition.

Stone had a powerful voice and an infectious personality that won over clients, jurors and judges; it was a wonderful asset for a criminal defense attorney who represented the rich, the very rich and ultra rich of Orange County from charges of bribery, fraud, embezzlement, assault, rape or murder. He’d even stoop to a DUI defense if the client was wealthy enough.

Alice had called his office, told the assistant she was referred by her close family friend, the Governor, and she’d like an appointment. She explained that she and her husband had been accused of stealing eighty million dollars from his investors and she needed a good lawyer. She wanted to be the last appointment of the day, so she asked if he could see her at 6:00 p.m. The assistant checked and told her that would be fine.