The badly decomposed body of a young white male was
discovered in a shallow grave beneath a tree carved with symbols
believed to have occult significance. Similar symbols were found
on the victim’s body. A source close to the investigation
confirmed that the heart of the victim had been removed.
Detective James Riordan of the Pasadena Police Department
refused to speculate on a possible link between this death and the
discovery of a woman’s similarly mutilated body in the
Hollywood Hills last month.
As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.
Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.
Chapter Five
“I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday
night’s Partners in Crime writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide.
“Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
“You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my
handiwork.
“I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”
I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.
I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the
group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some
claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and
humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.
“Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You
hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”
Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite
knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of
relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual
friendship – which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.
“A task force?”
“Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave
me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers
were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.
If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree
and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl
found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained
how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything
remotely occult-oriented.
I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder – let alone two murders. I
mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same
church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.
The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion.
The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about
writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I
considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own
unexpected and slight literary success – although ironically it was my “cred” as a published
writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in
crime.
They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the
triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and
Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.
I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping
my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which
effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts
on whether – should the situation deteriorate further – I could track Angus through his
girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of
this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and
conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.
I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if
he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as
I knew, Wanda lived at home with her parents, so maybe there was a lead there.
I realized Jean had stopped reading. The group was ready for discussion. The Finches
have been working on this monsterpiece for the past two years. The latest revision had to do
with turning a relatively minor character, Avery Oxford, into the protagonist. I had a lot of
problems with Avery, not so much because he was a gay stereotype, but because I feared he
was based on me. True, he was a Hollywood gossip columnist, but he was thirty-three, five-
eleven, slender, had black hair, blue eyes, and a friend on the police force named Jack
O’Reilly – and he kept showing up in my clothes. In the scene I’d just read, he was wearing
“a favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a black lambswool sweater over a crisp, white T-shirt” –
pretty much what I’d worn to last week’s meeting.
I said, trying to be tactful, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think turning Avery into the
protag is a good idea, Jean. I think you should stick to the original plan. Kill him off in
chapter seven. Or even sooner.”
“I don’t know,” Max mused. “He’s an amusing twerp.” Max was a rugged forty, with
yellow shaggy hair and yellow shaggy beard. Attractive, I guess, if you don’t mind a guy who
sees deodorant and razors as a threat to his masculinity. He was aggressively heterosexual
and made a point of dating every unattached woman who joined the group. Since his regular
pillow pal was Grania Joyce, another of our partners in crime, it made for an interesting
dynamic.
Ted turned to Jean, whose face had fallen at my words. She faltered, “We’ve already
rewritten those first nine chapters to reflect the new character dynamic.”
“I don’t think he’s a strong enough character.”
“You could go with the cop,” Chan suggested. “O’Reilly’s a strong character.”
“If you don’t mind the testosterone overload,” Grania sneered. Grania was tall and
rangy, with an unruly mane of sorrel hair: your basic warrior princess model.
“I got no problem with it,” said Chan.
Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to