Killing Pretty (11 page)

“I should have bound and gagged them before we left.”

“You're such a good dad.”

I watch her with the camera, playing with the angles, popping the zoom in and out. She's having too much fun, like she thinks she's David Hemmings in
Blow-­Up
.

“Since when are you a photographer?”

She snaps away.

“Since today. Julie gave me a Vigil point-­and-­shoot. It does the work and I make the art.”

“Why didn't I get one?”

She moves the camera just low enough that I can see her eyes.

“Julie says you break things.”

I don't reply, just let her shoot. It's distracting her from turning the music up again.

“So, some old lady thinks her neighbors are dealers,” Candy says.

“That's what Julie told me. We're supposed to get hard photographic proof of their evil ways.”

“I've hardly seen anyone go by. They must be lousy dealers.”

“Ours isn't to judge. Ours is to show up and collect a paycheck for the night.”

“Why didn't the old lady just call the cops?”

“Apparently, she did. They sent a ­couple of patrol cars to do roll-­bys, but they didn't see anything. I guess she wants proof before she calls back again.”

Candy rolls down her window and takes some shots of a coyote running up the winding street.

“She must have money to throw around to pay for an all-­nighter.”

“God favors the wellborn and the well connected.”

“That sounds like something Vidocq would say.”

“I stole it from him.”

A ­couple in matching tracksuits strolls by, walking their dog.

“Julie says there's no statute of limitations on Lurkers.”

Candy nods, checks some of her shots in the LED screen on the back of the camera.

“Yeah,” she says. “I really blew it, didn't I?”

“You didn't blow it. Mason blew things up when he dosed you. He could have killed you, but he knew ruining your life would be more fun.”

“I didn't even know the guy.”

“That made it even more fun. Dragging you into his random craziness.”

“But it wasn't random, was it? Before, he fucked with Alice because she was with you, and then he came after me.”

“He liked to get to me through ­people I cared about.”

She takes shots of the other cars and a lone cat sitting on the trunk of a nearby Lexus.

“Too bad he's dead. I wouldn't mind hurting him.”

“It sounds kind of lame to say, but I'm sorry for everything that's happened.”

She shrugs.

“ 'Course there's another way of looking at things. I mean, making me crazy, making you angry and paranoid. If we were smart, we'd have broken up by now. But we didn't,” says Candy. “The way I see it, we won.”

“Me too.”

“I'm hungry. Did you bring snacks?”

“I forgot them.”

“Moron.”

“Yeah.”

A door slams somewhere up the street. Maybe a second later, three men in identical clothes come running down Wonderland Avenue. In the pale light from the surrounding houses, it's easy to see the bats and pipes in their hands. Two of the men look scared. I can't see the third because he's facedown in the street. The idiot tripped over the low brick boundary around a small garden in front of one of the houses. His buddies start back for him, but he gets to his feet and breaks into a stumbling run.

“You shooting?” I say, but it's unnecessary. When I hear Candy clicking away with the camera, I hit the headlights to give her a better view of the street.

The Three Stooges freeze. They're dressed in matching desert camo shirts and black slacks tucked into what look like paratrooper boots. Their shirts are soaked in blood I'm pretty certain isn't theirs. With light on them, I see something else. An insignia on their shirts. Like a capital
W
in a white circle, and something else I can't identify.

Their brains reconnect with their bodies and they take off. I jump from the car and run after them. Two are dead ahead, but the third one is gone.

There's a thudding blow against my right shoulder, then a stinging sensation that spreads across my back and right up my neck. One of the Stooges was hiding behind a car and clocked me good on the back with a length of pipe. I turn just as he swings for my head and duck out of the way, letting the metal sail by, barely missing me. I'm still getting my balance when I hear footsteps moving up behind me. There's nothing I can do but turn because I know from the sound that both of the other Stooges are back there.

I swing around, staying low, hoping Stooge Three behind me holds back, waiting for his buddies. That might give me time to hurt them just enough that I can get back to him, even with numbness spreading from my shoulder down my right arm.

I should have known better than to worry, but, you know, it's embarrassing and distracting getting hurt that early in a fight.

The two guys coming at me don't ever connect because they're too distracted by their friend's screaming. I don't have to look to know that Candy's back there, gone completely Jade. Red pupils sunk in black eyes. Shark teeth in a pretty mouth and claws like scythes. She's shredding Stooge number three's shirt and skin. One of the other Stooges, a beanpole with a baseball bat, pulls a Glock from a holster on his hip. I turn and dive, not heading for the beanpole, but going for Candy, knocking her down just as the first shot goes off. Beanpole pops off a ­couple of more rounds before he and the Stooges leg it into the shadows, disappearing between a ­couple of houses down the street. It's too dark to know which ones.

When I let Candy up, she's already changing back into Chihiro. By now a dozen ­people are all dialing 911, but I want to know what the hell just happened. We run up the block and spot a boxy two-­story stucco place with a blood trail all the way down the side stairs. We follow the red up, careful not to step in any, and come to an open door on the first floor. There's just enough light reflected inside to see a sizable pool of blood and four bodies laid out like sausages in a frying pan. The weird thing is, the way their bodies are angled, it looks like they're making a
W
. Candy might have called me the brains the other day, but she's the smart one. She pulls the Vigil's camera from her pocket and starts taking pictures. I have to pull her back down the stairs.

We sprint for the car. Once in, I gun it, heading back down the hill with the lights off so no one can get our license plate. When we hit Laurel Canyon Boulevard, our lights are on and I've settled in at the speed limit as the first cop cars blow by.

Still, I take the long way back to Max Overdrive and leave the Crown Vic parked down by Hollywood High. If someone did see us up on Wonderland tonight, maybe the cops will blame the cheerleading squad.

While we walk home Candy rubs my shoulder.

It would be sweet if she weren't laughing at me for getting hit.

O
NCE WE'RE HOME,
I get out my phone. It takes all of ten minutes to fill Julie in on what happened in the canyon.

“And you're both all right?” she says.

“We're fine. I'll have a bruise tomorrow, but my pride will hurt more.”

“Have Candy bring the camera by in the morning so I can download the photos. And when I say morning, I mean morning. Not two o'clock or even noon. I want you in by nine.”

“What's the big deal? We didn't see anything that looked like a drug den, unless they're using cats to carry their smack. The other thing we saw, the cops will handle.”

Julie curses quietly.

“I wish you hadn't gone to the crime scene, but since you did, I want to see what you have.”

“I think Candy got some good shots of the three assholes. If you give them to the cops or the Vigil or whoever, just leave our names out of it.”

“Don't worry. You're the last person I'm bringing in as a witness.”

I take the phone outside so I can light up. It feels good to have the smoke in my lungs, burning out the smell of all that blood in the apartment. The stink reminds me of the arena Downtown. Of course, there the blood was usually mine.

“Something bothered me all the way home. The address you gave us. The eight-­thousand block of Wonderland Avenue. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Should it?”

I puff the Malediction and scrape at the
KILLER
paint job on the windows with my thumb.

“The Four on the Floor murders, way back in '81. It was big news at the time. Four ­people beaten to death with bats and pipes.”

“And you're saying the murders took place nearby?”

“On the same block. Those murders were drug-­related and we were there on a drug case.”

“But you said you didn't see any dealing going on.”

“Fine. Alleged drug case. But you see the similarities, right?”

“It
is
a funny coincidence, I'll give you that,” she says. Then, “Are you talking about the murders where they arrested some big porn star?”

“John Holmes. Ex–porn star by then. He was on a long downhill slide. The cops were certain he was one of the killers, put up to it by a big L.A. dealer named Eddie Nash. They put Holmes and some other losers on trial. Everyone walked.”

“It's an interesting story, but a hell of a stretch. Where's the connection after all this time?”

I turn around and there's a wino watching me from across the street. I can practically smell him from fifty feet. He makes finger guns and yells, “Bang! Bang!” Then, “Have a nice night, killer!”

I really have to get rid of this paint job.

“I don't know the connection. Look, maybe, at worst, it's a copycat crime. But those guys in uniforms, they stank of crazy. And not just any crazy. L.A. crazy.”

“What does that mean?”

“L.A. crazy is when you don't just kill someone, you turn it into a cheap made-­for-­TV movie. The Wonderland killings, starring Laurel Canyon money, dope, and porn. B-­horror-­movie killers like the Hillside Strangler and the Night Stalker. It's Charlie Manson hanging out with the Beach Boys because he thinks they're going to make him a rock star. It's the Black Dahlia, a murder so strange a lot of ­people didn't believe it at first. Hell, I'm babysitting Death. That's what I'm talking about. L.A. crazy.”

“I'm not going to tell you this often, Stark, but I'm going to tell you now,” says Julie. “Go and have a drink. Have two or three. Calm down and bring me the pictures in the morning.”

I drop the Malediction and grind it out with my boot. Feel around in my pocket for the flask, unscrew it, and take a pull.

“I wonder if what happened is going to make the news?”

“Why do you care?” says Julie.

“Maybe someone else saw the Three Stooges.”

“Let it go for tonight. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Okay. See you then.”

I hang up, but don't go inside right away. I have a ­couple of more drinks. Boss's orders. Besides, something else is bothering me.

Tonight is the first time Candy's gone Jade since becoming Chihiro. It was a beautiful thing to see, but it brings up a problem I hadn't thought of before. What if down the line someone sees her change and starts calculating the odds of me hooking up with two Jades in a row? Maybe I can just pass it off as having a thing for shark-­toothed berserker girls. I've heard of worse fetishes. Still, it's one more thing to worry about.

W
E DROP THE
photos with Julie and head back to Max Overdrive with a bag full of cleaning supplies and paint thinner.

Kasabian and Death stay inside, having sort of elected themselves the new store staff. It's too early for customers, but they've already opened. I get the feeling now that he's healed, Death doesn't sleep much, and Kasabian is trying to keep up. I give it until tomorrow before he collapses on a pillow of Bavarian creams and empty beer cans. I think Death is kind of fascinated by Kasabian and his mechanical body, a yappy sideshow attraction not quite dead or alive. Kasabian must be feeling better around Death. When Candy and I came down this morning, they were watching
This Island Earth
together. It's not exactly
Friday the 13th,
but ­people do die.

Candy and I are still experimenting with the paint thinner, trying it on a ­couple of different spots, when Maria comes up the block. She waves when she sees us. Candy waves back.

“Hi, Candy. Hi, Stark,” she says in that halting “I don't talk to live ­people that much” way she has.

“Morning,” says Candy.

I wipe paint thinner off my hands.

“Hi. If you're looking for Kasabian, he's inside with his friend from Narnia.”

She shakes her head tensely.

“That's all right. I was looking for you.”

“Why's that?”

“Dash is missing.”

“Dash is your ghost pal, right? The one you talk to through the mirror.”

The morning is warm, but she keeps her arms wrapped around herself like it's ten below.

“Yes, that's him. I haven't been able to contact him in a ­couple of days.”

“Why are you coming to me with this? Aren't there other witches who can help you track down a lost ghost?”

“That's the problem,” she says. “We've been trying, but he's just not there. I was hoping . . .” She trails off.

“What?”

­“People say you can go places. Hell. Heaven. The Tenebrae. I was hoping that maybe you could look for him for me.”

Candy and I exchange a look. I walk over to Maria.

“I'd like to help you, but I can't shadow-­walk anymore, which means I'm stuck on Earth like everybody else.”

I don't want to tell her that I
might
be able to go to the Tenebrae, a kind of wasted, lonely, hangout for souls not ready to move on to the afterlife, but I don't want to. To go there, I'd have to perform the Metatron's Cube Communion ritual. Slit my wrists and bleed out in a magic circle, letting my half-­dead ass drift to Tenebrae Station. It isn't as much fun as a naked brunch with Candy, but back when I had access to the Room of Thirteen Doors I was always sure I could get back and into my body. Without the Room, I'm afraid I could get stuck in the Tenebrae with a bunch of manic-­depressive spooks forever.