Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 8

Chapter

8

As we headed back to West L.A., I searched for blood warriors movie, found it readily on a film-archive database. Released nineteen years ago, low-budget production, one-star rating.

The archive was more inclusive than the poster. Paul O’Brien was listed on the stunt crew. I told Milo.

He said, “Hired to fall down, probably thought he was gonna be an action star. Anything more recent?”

I ran O’Brien’s name through the site, came up with two additional mentions for stunt work. Similar stinkers, one a year prior to Blood Warriors, the other two years after.

Milo said, “Three gigs in three years. Mega-delusions.”

I said, “He needed to make a living another way.”

“To me he looks like an obvious sleaze but it didn’t stop Marissa from falling for his I’m-a-producer line. What you said about that dump makes sense. No way she’d fall for his bullshit if she was fully conscious so he had to start dosing her at the party. Easy enough to do it, those weird little fishies. Pop the cap, squeeze it into a Sea Breeze, and you’ve got your unwilling partner.”

I said, “Then you supplement the dose to make sure she’s totally out by the time you get her home. O’Brien thought he knew how to calibrate and time because he’d had experience. But something went really wrong.”

“Vice doesn’t know him but let’s see what Petra turns up. Meanwhile, I’ll get a victim’s warrant on Marissa’s place and try to find out where her last party was. Then I work on locating her aunt and do what needs to be done.”

“Anything you want from me?”

“Just keep thinking.”

—

We were nearly at the station when Detective Sean Binchy called.

“What’s up, kid?”

“Loot, you got a call a few minutes ago, desk sent it to me. Woman named Tori Burkholder, I told her I’d pass anything along but she only wanted to talk to you.”

“The perks of personal charm.”

Sean laughed. “Got to be, sir. She for real?”

“Friend of my new victim.”

“Who’s that?”

“Woman O.D.’d and dumped dead near a hospital. It just got complicated but no time to get into it right now, Sean. What’s your caseload?”

“Just closed a strong-arm robbery in Pico-Robertson so I’m open, so far.”

“Congrats. Any chance of drafting you?”

“Hope so,” said Sean. “I’ll try to make it happen.”

“If you pull it off, let me know and I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Moses and Alicia, too. If you don’t mind, give ’em a heads-up.”

“Will do, Loot. Here’s the number.”

—

We got held up under a freeway pass at Santa Monica and Sepulveda. Simmering cars and tempers, a homeless guy panhandling to no avail.

Milo used the time to punch in Tori Burkholder’s number.

One ring was followed by “This is Tori, Officer,” in a voice that broke twice.

“Thanks for calling.”

“Beth and Yoli told me and Bethany about Marissa. They work weekends, we don’t, and we were in Camarillo doing some shopping. We’re still freaked out.”

Milo said, “Terrible thing.”

“It’s horrible, ” said Tori Burkholder. “I live right near Marissa and Bethany isn’t that far. Is there some serial killer looking for girls?”

“Nothing like that, Tori. Beth and Yoli didn’t tell you what happened?”

“They said some guy drugged, raped, and killed her. Which is crazy ’cause Marissa didn’t use drugs.”

“Could we talk face-to-face?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“When and where?”

“Now and wherever,” said Tori Burkholder. “We’re on the freeway and right now, I don’t even want to go home.”

“Would you mind coming to the station?”

“Sure,” she said. “Guess that’s one safe place.”

He gave her the address.

She said, “I can probably do it in half an hour because traffic’s going the other way. Beth, you okay with it? She is, hopefully half an hour.”

“I’ll be here whenever you arrive.”

“You sound nice,” she said. “This is crazy.”

—

Forty-eight minutes later, standing under a night sky pinholed by starlight, Milo and I were ready when a red Kia headed south on Butler and sped toward us.

I’d just finished telling Robin I’d be late. She said, “No prob, I’ll keep working.”

Milo had just finished texting Petra to work on scheduling a meeting.

The Kia pulled to the curb and stopped. The passenger window lowered on Tori Burkholder’s lovely, tense face.

Milo said, “Here’s a parking pass, ladies. Pull in right over there, we’ll wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few moments later, two identically sized women dressed in snug black tops, black tights, and black flats crossed the street and came toward us. Tori Burkholder’s hair was still long and blond, Bethany McGonigal’s long and black. They walked in step with each other, precise as drum majorettes.

Milo muttered, “Is there a machine somewhere that turns them out?”

He met them halfway, guided them over, said, “I’m Milo Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”

Nods, downcast eyes, barely audible hi ’s.

“Thanks for coming, ladies.”

More nods.

Inside, he said, “Elevator or stairs?”

Bethany McGonigal, red-eyed and tear-streaked, touched her Apple Watch and studied the mini-screen. “I’ve done my steps.”

“Me, too.”