A Contemporary Tale

By Steven Webb

J.T., a down on his luck street person, stumbles across a vicious murder occurring before his eyes. His decision to follow the killer takes him on a danger filled journey that eventually leads to his hope for redemption and a better life. Veronica Flores, the stunningly beautiful police detective, who with the help of the F.B.I. is on the trail of a serial killer who targets only Federal Judges. Troy, the marijuana grower with his seductively sensual lady friend Whisper and her B.F.F. Violet. The trio comfortably intermingle with the Hollywood elite, while Troy supplies them with his top grade product. Webb weaves a captivating tale of murder, love, and betrayal, filled with a cast of interesting, some times tragic, other times hilarious characters, racing toward an unexpected and unforgettable climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642983982

Steven Webb

Full name: Steven WebbD.O.B: 28th October 1961Place of Birth: Wiltshire, United KingdomEducation: Barberton High schoolFavourite authors: Bryce Courtenay,Wilbur Smith,Nelson DeMille,Mark Giminez,Lee ChildFavourite sports: Golf and rugbyFavourite team: Sharks and SpringboksFavourite pastimes: Camping, writing, reading, building modelsFavourite meal: Chops, eggs and chips.Favourite films: We were soldiers once...and young,Apollo 13Wild HogsI came to South Africa in 1971 when I was just ten years old, with my parents, my brother Andrew and my sister Kirsty.After spending some time at both Welkom High and Capricorn High Schools, I finished my schooling at Barberton High School. I came to love Barberton and the Lowveld with a passion that I still feel today. The town is steeped in history and is located in a part of the country that I can only describe as being Gods country. It was from Barberton that I left to do my national service as related in my first book Ops Medic: A National Serviceman’s Border War.After national service In 1986 I joined the Johannesburg Emergency Services and have spent the main part of my career as a paramedic, which is what my second book Paramedics: Lights and Sirens is about.I am married to Pamela and have three step-children, Paul, Chantelle and Crystal and two grandchildren. Chantelle married Wayne in 2009 and on Valentine’s Day 2010 our grandson, Malachi Joshua arrived in the world. Eighteen months later our beautiful granddaughter Makayla was born.I like to spend time with good friends and my family. I am presently doing remote site work, so spend half of my time away from home, which is in Boksburg, South Africa.Update:In May 2016 our second grandson, Tyler James, was born to my youngest daughter Crystal. I now hold a full time position on a Copper Mine in Zambia, but still travel.The Helderberg Conspiracy is my third book.

Book preview

Las Vegas

The Dumpster diver was hungry. He hadn’t eaten well in several days. A stale doughnut, a piece of fruit snagged off a tree. Life was hard on an empty stomach. He had learned the hard way.

Through no fault of his own, he had ended up on the streets. A happenstance of fate, of health. He wasn’t a heavy drinker or drug user, just an unfortunate. His life was hard, but he knew things would get better. The optimist felt that the glass was half full whereas the pessimist felt it was half empty. The Dumpster diver had always known that the glass was half full. If life sends a lemon your way, make lemonade, was his motto.

Today, though, his stomach was empty, which doesn’t lend itself to a good mood. He always tried to project a friendly attitude while in the company of others, but today he was in a somewhat surly state of mind.

It was one of those sweltering Nevada summer days that made your lungs feel as though they were inhaling fire instead of air. This being the case, he decided to suspend his search for food and focus on finding a place to cool off.

He envisioned a tropical island with palm trees and cool, refreshing breezes, but right now he’d settle for an empty home for sale with the pool ready for prospective buyers. Make no mistake, the Dumpster diver wasn’t stupid. Merely destitute.

He traversed the streets and alleys searching for his perfect spot. Just as he turned off Las Vegas Boulevard into one of the dissecting alleys, he turned into a parking lot and saw a male leaning over a writhing form on the ground. He was repeatedly ramming a knife with great speed and force into a loudly groaning victim. The Dumpster diver splayed himself against a wooden fence and some sparsely growing bushes. He watched in horror as the man knelt down, grabbed the victim by the hair, jerked the head back, and savagely sliced into the person’s neck, nearly severing the head from the body. Blood was gushing everywhere.

It reminded the Dumpster diver of a drinking fountain, such as you see in a hospital hallway, health spa, or any typical high school gymnasium, except this waterfall was bright red; and as it cascaded down, it was a horrifying spectacle.

He stared spellbound as the man gripped the head and, with a tremendous twist, snapped it from the torso. With this accomplished, he began chuckling aloud, spat on the lifeless, twitching body, and wiped blood from the knife as he slowly surveyed the scene.

The Dumpster diver flattened himself against the fence, trying to make himself invisible as he desperately prayed the killer would not pass his way while making good his escape.

Peeking through slitted eyelids, he held his breath as the killer looked toward him, past him, and finally back to his grisly handiwork.

Still gripping the head in his hand, he stooped down and placed it in an old beat-up bowling-ball bag. It was the type the Dumpster diver had used during an earlier time in his life, before things began to fall apart.

Los Angeles

The athlete awakened from a muddled sleep peppered with one disturbing dream after another, to even more disturbing sounds. The screaming of a small child, or was it? As he struggled to awaken and focus his thoughts, the noise became louder and more animated. He leapt up as he realized what he was hearing were screams of terror! Not sure from whose throat these visceral sounds had originated, he sprang from his bed, sprinted through the living room, and bolted out the side door.

He was greeted by the sight of his dog, Blossom. She was chasing a large chicken. As they skidded around the corner, she launched herself on the chicken’s back and began chewing it to hold on.

The noise he heard was the chicken screeching in terror as the dog pursued her with deadly intent. He sprinted toward them with blinding speed and, upon reaching them, bent down, scooping Blossom up with his right hand and grabbing the chicken by its feet with his left.

Blossom was now in a complete funk! She was a snarling, chomping little ball of fur needing storage, which was exactly what happened next. The athlete hustled her into the house, separating the screaming bird and the slobbering little she-monster as he went.

As good fortune would have it, the door to the dog’s kennel was still open from their being released to take care of their business that morning. He tossed her in and slammed it shut.

Later that evening, as the athlete was relaxing with an ice-cold brew, he imagined the thoughts that were possibly running through his dog’s mind as he filched her meal from her jaws of death. Damn, Dad! she was probably thinking. Almost scored that raw Kentucky Fried! Don’t have fingers, but it was paw-lickin’ good. I’ll get him for that. I’ll shit on the rug or something! She reminded him of some of the women from his past: beautiful, yet deadly and extremely vindictive. Not in the sense that they would kill you, just your heart. At the same time, they were so desirable. You know what they say, all’s fair in love and war. Interesting, he thought. He’d yet to meet a woman who played fair, but he’d known quite a few who liked to play.

Women. You can’t live with them. You can’t live without them, and you can’t shoot them. What’s a man to do? he mused.

A friend of his once commented that it was impossible to trust women. He said, How can you trust something that bleeds for a week and won’t die? The athlete thought that was pretty funny, though he doubted many women would.

Women were a strange breed. Especially many of today’s so-called modern women. They wore suits that had shoulder pads, making them look like linebackers on a football team. They cut their hair shorter than the men they were trying to impress and then whined to everyone that they couldn’t find a good man. Who in their right mind is attracted to a woman looking like that?

Here’s a news flash: most women don’t have the facial features to wear their hair cut short. They wear it that way because it’s easier to take care of. It’s better for their life on the go. Their friends then tell them, Oh, sweetie, your hair looks sooooo cute (knowing they’re lying through their teeth). Thus, the lie is perpetrated, and the world is being filled with unattractive, angry professional females, or so thought the athlete in his slightly inebriated state.

He thought about the chicken and how close she had come to death. She was very beautiful as chickens go. He’d looked her up online. She was a breed known as a Bar Rock chicken. She was black-and-white with luxuriantly thick feathers. You could bury your hand in her neck, and the feathers would smother your wrist.

He’d decided to name her Blossom’s chew toy but would call her Chew Toy for short. It sort of reminded him of a buddy of his who had a cat he’d named Road Bump because he’d been hit by a car. Usually, it was hard to name a new pet; but in this case, it was a snooze. The athlete knew the obvious place Chew Toy had come from had to be his landlords’ coop. They lived in a really cool home perched on a hill behind the small one-bedroom cottage he rented.

They raised American bulldogs as well as chickens.

His landlady explained that this particular chicken had been released from the coop to fend for herself. It seems every time one of the other girls would lay an egg, Chew Toy would peck and stomp the eggs to pieces. Not exactly the best roommate.

Rather than wring her neck, the decision was made to turn her loose and give her a fighting chance. Unfortunately for her, she sauntered down the hill and chanced upon Blossom basking in the noonday sun. Perhaps, though, it wasn’t so unfortunate. Now she would be loved and taken care of the rest of her days.

The athlete and his landlady discussed the situation and mutually agreed that if he chose to try to mend the chicken (she was mutilated deeply on her lower back), the hen was his as a freebie. That was a given. If anyone ever had a love for critters, it was the athlete. He had a menagerie of animals at his place, which was the main reason he chose to rent where he was now living.

The owners allowed him to keep all his pets except his pet pit bull named T-bone (because of insurance concerns), and whenever he brought a new critter home, there was never a complaint.

His latest acquisition were two male baby pygmy goats. Their mother died of a pulmonary embolus when they were five days old. He purchased them from a local breeder for $30 each. He’d gotten a good deal because Sedric the breeder had his hands full with a multitude of other goats and didn’t want to bottle-feed them. However, this was exactly what the athlete had put feelers out for. He specifically wanted a pygmy he could bottle-feed. The fact that he now had two pygmy brothers was icing on the cake.

He named the black one Grizzly because of his habit of standing on his hind legs like a big bad Grizzly bear, and the white one he named Gringo, the Hispanic term for white boy. He thought they were cooler than a fan on a hot summer day. They followed him everywhere he went, just as his dogs had while still puppies. His cats, however, were less than thrilled with these new intruders into their world.

Washington, DC

The red phone in the White House continued to ring and ring and ring. What the hell was this? The most important phone in the United States of America left unattended? Somebody taking a shit? Having sex in a closet? What if there were a missile threat or an attack by foreign assholes? Finally, on the fifth ring, someone picked up.

The National Security Advisor listened intently for several minutes before slamming the phone down. He was pissed. This had gone on long enough.

Douglas Fairchild was an imposing man, standing six foot eight with deep-set steel-gray eyes and a hawk-like nose. When he tilted his chin and stared down that nose, one had the impression that he was being scrutinized by the bird of prey everyone compared him to. He had hair the color of his eyes and combed it straight back and cut even with his collar.

Fairchild was a man born to money and had every advantage growing up that comes with having wealthy parents. Though this was the case, he wasn’t raised as a spoiled child. His parents had earned their money the hard way. They worked for it.

His father was a real estate broker who became extremely rich during the real estate boom of the nineties. His mother was an MD specializing in ER medicine. They had raised him with a strong work ethic, both in academics as well as sports. Because of his athletic prowess, he received a wrestling scholarship to Stanford, majoring in political science. It was there he’d met Rita. She was the love of his life. Since the day they met, both were inseparable. She was a small-town girl from Xenia, Ohio. Her college major was horticulture. Her passion was raising orchids. She loved taking her babies (as she referred to them) to the orchid shows where she competed with other growers for ribbons.

She was a gentle woman in touch with the finer things in life, what she chose to call the gentle arts. Being a very spiritual person, she saw God’s handiwork in all beautiful plants, landscapes, and creatures of the earth. Unfortunately, they had been unable to conceive.

She tried to see the good in everything. Her husband had to deal with the evil that Rita never saw. He did his best to protect her from the bad things of the world.

Los Angeles

She wasn’t just hot. She was smoking hot! The woman every man wanted and every woman hated. Jaw-dropping, head-turning hot! She epitomized the term hottie. The word was probably made up by someone who’d eyed her! Anyone looking at this babe knew that women rule and men drool.

Her name was Veronica Flores, Police Detective Veronica Flores of the Los Angeles PD. She was the first in her family to make detective. Her game was murder/homicide. To her, though, it wasn’t a game. She took her profession very seriously. Endowed with the body of a Victoria Secret supermodel and the mind of a computer, she came from a long line of police officers: her dad, his dad, his dad before him. The list was longer.

Some member of her family had been in law enforcement since the formation of the Texas Rangers during the 1800s. They were originally from Houston but had migrated to California, settling in Los Angeles during the aftermath of World War II. Jobs were easy to find, the weather was perfect, the state was growing. Texas had become old news. Tired of the heat and humidity of Houston, her dad decided to go west and dip his feet in the Pacific Ocean. He hadn’t wanted much in life, but this was something he’d harbored a secret desire to do for years: wade on the beach, look for seashells, smell the salt air, and dodge seagull shit if one decided to fly too low and aim his way.

Veronica loved her dad. He was her rock, her fortress. Everything she was, she felt she owed him.

Her mother died in an auto accident when Veronica was three. She had no real memories of her, only the myriad of stories her dad shared with her as a child growing up.

She was saddened for Botto. She’d grown up hearing everyone say, Hey Bott-oh-oh! Yo—Hey, Bott-oh-oh! (his nickname). She knew this was out of respect for her dad. He was man’s man—a real man. His given name was Carlos. Carlos Flores was a legend on the force. He’d received multiple commendations for valor and had been shot twice: once in the shoulder, once in the ass.

Problem was, he was still in love with his wife. Twenty-six years after she died, he couldn’t release her memory and would, many times, in the still of the night while he sat alone in the dark, converse with her. He felt her presence, knew she was near. It wasn’t that she answered him. It was the peace he felt as he shared his deepest secrets with her, the same as he had when they had shared the same bed. Some nights, he would sip his bourbon, and the tears would stream down his cheeks as the hole in his heart grew in size until it threatened to devour his entire being. He would sob quietly, his shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with the grief that had never and would never leave.

He hadn’t prayed in years. He didn’t want to converse or acknowledge an entity responsible for not protecting the priceless jewel who was his wife. After the whiskey-induced numbness kicked in, Carlos would shuffle to the bedroom, flop face down, and sink into another round of mindless slumber.

Las Vegas

The killer ambled along, leisurely carrying his newly won trophy in his left hand.

As he strolled away, the Dumpster diver felt a searing pain in his chest. He intrinsically knew that this was his moment of truth. He would either cower against this wall, or he would get his balls up and follow this piece of shit. He was no coward, never had been. He inhaled deeply and started moving.

As the killer turned right on Las Vegas Boulevard, the Dumpster diver sprinted after him. Upon reaching the main drag, he peeked around the corner of the building and began to saunter nonchalantly, hands jammed in the pockets of his worn-out blue jeans, keeping one eye always on the madman in front of him, the other on the traffic around him. The heat was oppressive, but the sweat that cascaded in rivulets under his clothing was more from fear and anxiety, not the intensity of the sun. The Dumpster diver was frightened. He wasn’t stupid. He’d just seen a man brutally murdered and decapitated.

One slip, and he knew he could end up the same way. It wasn’t that he was afraid of death, just the opposite. He embraced it. He’d begged the Eternal Being on more than one occasion to punch out his earthly ticket. Hadn’t been that fun of a ride really. Maybe round two was better?

Hard to say, too tired to care. No luck so far. Maybe the Big Guy in the Sky wants to torture me a while longer, he thought.

Los Angeles

Hey, dumb ass, get the fuck away from there! How many times I got to tell you, man? You’re about as stupid as a bitch doing the whole football team after homecoming!

Frankie was a dichotomy. Stupid as they come but an encyclopedia of facts. In fact (no pun intended), that was his nickname: Frankie Facts.

You’d be talking to Frankie, and all of a sudden, he’d spout out something like, Did you know Abraham Lincoln was the sixteenth president of the United States? Then he’d continue the conversation as though nothing unusual happened. A few minutes later, he’d bust out something like, Did you know cats only see in three colors?

The dude could wear your ass out conversing with you.

"Sorry, Candy-man, I’m like the guy Dirty Harry had on the ground with that .44 Magnum pointed at his head. I just got to know!"

"Let me tell you what I know, stupid ass. I know if you go near that cellar door again, I’m gonna hit you on top of your head so hard you’ll have to unzip your fly to see!"

The Candy-man was Frankie’s older brother. He’d raised him since Frankie was ten. Their old man drank himself to death after their mother left for a used-car salesman. When the old man died, rather than be placed in foster care, sixteen-year-old Kenny took his brother and rode the rails bound for Hollywood. He carried the nickname the Candy-man because of the copious amount of hard candy he was always chomping on.

He loved his brother, but the boy pissed him off so much he just had to bash him now and then. He justified it by thinking to himself, Maybe this’ll knock some sense into him.

Frankie idolized his older brother. He got slapped around a lot and choked now and then, but Kenny told him it would make him tough. It was for his own good, and he believed everything his brother told him.

Washington, DC

He was an early riser. He could hear the pre-dawn chirping of birds as they scattered from various nests, trying to beat others to scurrying worms heading to underground havens before the dreaded monsters tried to devour them. The monsters of the sky, of the ground . . . sometimes of the weather.

Fairchild loved the sculls. He’d go to the river and watch early-morning practices. Though he was a wrestler, he loved everything about scull racing: the sun shimmering off the surface of the water in the early morning light, the cadence barked by the coxswain, the coordination of the rowers, the combination, the culmination of teamwork = = = win! That was Fairchild. He loved the Olympic Games. The real ones. Not the ones that allowed professional athletes to compete instead of amateurs.

Wasn’t that way back in the day. Professional basketball players, professional tennis players—wasn’t what the Olympics were founded on or supposed to be.

Jim Thorpe was stripped of his Olympic titles because he played semi-pro baseball. He was paid a few bucks a game. Best natural athlete the USA ever had. No Olympic medals for Jim.

The political climate of the day was different back then.

Jim Thorpe was Native American.

If the president hadn’t suspended the Olympic Games because of political bullshit, Fairchild would have been an Olympic wrestler for the USA. He felt he was as good as Dan Gable, his hero. Just hadn’t had a chance to prove it.

Gable won every wrestling match he’d entered in high school. Never lost one in college until his last match, and then breezed through the Olympic trials without a loss. Same thing in the Olympics. Gold medal, no losses.

Fairchild often reflected on Gables’s thoughts about that one last college match. The only loss of his career. Great way to punish an asshole country for invading another country: ban athletes who, for years, had pursued their Olympic dreams. Laboring, sweating, bleeding to be the very best their country had to offer and being ripped off because of ignorant, stupid-ass politicians. Punish the athletes, you dipshit.

He had never and would never forgive the administration or the president who’d robbed him of what he thought to be his rightful place in Olympic history.

These thoughts were dampening the essence of the new day, however, so Fairchild tossed them aside and let his mind drift back to the sculls.

Las Vegas

The screaming could be heard for blocks. Screams and screams and screams! People walked by doing nothing. Several looked in the direction of the sound. Some covered their ears as they rushed by. One ran toward the shrieking. He was met by the sight of a young girl screaming and pointing at a headless body lying several feet from her. He would never be able to erase the image of her: terrified, petrified, frozen in place by the spectacle that greeted her as she cut through a parking lot on her way to the library. All she’d wanted was to research material for her science project.

The man who’d raced there to investigate placed his arm around her shoulders and tried to calm her down.

The police arrived at the scene with lights flashing and sirens wailing, thanks to a cell call from one of the scared little rabbits who’d scurried past earlier.

The first officer on the scene puked as he surveyed the carnage in front of him. The second to arrive thought to himself, Rookie; then he called it in.

Los Angeles

Troy was having a good day. He’d awakened early, feeling a little foggy and disoriented. He rolled onto his stomach, and his hand plopped against something soft and smooth. He lay there dreamily as he drifted slowly from sleep to wakefulness before opening his eyes.

It all came back to him then. The night before. The party he’d been to and the titty in his hand. The lady in bed with him was a petite blonde with big blue eyes. She’d come on to him hard last night at House of Blues in Hollywood. She’d bought him a couple of drinks, which he sipped while she was caressing his thigh.

Troy was a player, and he knew when a woman was ready for sex. Being a guy, he was rarely one to turn down that gift. Time for her to go, though. He lived on his boat in Marina del Rey, and the rule was always, In with the tide, out with the tide. No different now, though she was a hot little piece. It was a rule he didn’t care to break.

After rousing his one-nighter, he eased her out the door with a promise to call and a silent, You were fun. Now get the fuck out.

Coffee time? Nah, breakfast time. Troy felt as though half the Russian army had taken a shit in his mouth. He needed food. He needed coffee. Sake and sushi were heaven at night and hell in the morning. Not the sushi, the sake.

Washington, DC

Tank Johnson walked at a brisk pace down the marble inlaid hallway toward Douglas Fairchild’s office. He’d been summoned a few minutes earlier for a hastily convened meeting.

Something was in the air. He’d had a sense for several weeks that something big had or was about to happen. Given the secrecy of the place, it was hard to tell which. The activity around the department was charged with an underlying current that was almost palpable.

As he cruised through the door, he saw his good friend and mentor James Robinson.

Prior to his graduation from Boston College, Robinson had shown up on campus and gave a recruiting pitch for the FBI. He’d been out partying late with his buddies and was hungover as hell when a girl he was dating asked him to go with her to the campus job fair. He figured, why not?

Recruiters from different sectors of the workforce were there trying to woo the brightest and the best. They hit schools across the nation every spring. He hadn’t decided what to do with his life after graduation. The FBI spiel intrigued him. He was a tough guy. He’d been a running back on his college football team, and there wasn’t much he was afraid of. He thought, Why not? He applied for and was accepted into the academy six weeks later.

Without a true direction for his future, this seemed as good a choice as any. It wouldn’t be a job. It would be a career. A career with government benefits, job security, great retirement, and respect from his peers. He also thought it would be fun.

Robinson nodded to him as he entered the room. Tank acknowledged him with a slight raise of his eyebrows and headed toward his usual seat. Fairchild hadn’t shown yet, but the room was filling with most of the department’s heavy hitters.

The head of Homeland Security was conversing with the vice president; neither looked happy. The US attorney general was engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate with the president’s chief of staff, James Rogers. Rogers turned on his heel and angrily stomped away.

Everyone was in place a few minutes later as Fairchild strode purposefully into the room and took his seat at the head of the conference table.

Las Vegas

The unmarked cruiser arrived on the scene as the coroner was finishing her cursory inspection of the corpse.

Looks like he lost his head, quipped lead homicide detective Charlie Kimble as he sauntered toward the body with a smirk on his face.

The coroner looked up with a grimace and snapped at him, Show a little respect!

Kiss my ass, Kimble thought. Skirts are always the same, no sense of humor, and this one is always bitchy.

What an asshole! she thought. A real piece of shit. Then she ordered him to lose the cigarette dangling from his fingertips. She’d been on cases with this jerk before and didn’t like him, his methods, or his sense of humor. Add to this the fact he usually stank of alcohol—and some loser had her perfect man.

Kimble flicked his cigarette, took a last deep drag, crushed it between his fingers, and stuffed the butt inside his shirt pocket. He didn’t feel like listening anymore to this bitch coroner or the possibility of her whining to him about compromising the crime scene. He stood where he was and looked the area over.

Kimble was an asshole, but as an investigator, he didn’t miss much. The killer chose a good spot for the murder. It was a parking lot adjacent to the Federal Court Building. There was a six-foot-tall wall that ran along the back row of parking spaces. It was intersected by an alley running north to south at a right angle to Las Vegas Boulevard. His attack took place in the next-to-the-last row of the parking spaces. The brick wall was about ten feet farther on. There were scant bushes growing along the length of the wall. With the attack taking place so close to the wall, someone would have to turn the corner at the exact time he was doing the victim, then walk into the parking lot.

Slight chance of that, Kimble thought.

The coroner stood up and stretched. Sighing heavily, she turned toward Kimble and gestured for him to come over.

What’s up, Doc? Suicide? He snickered as he approached her.

Yeah, Kimble. He stabbed himself twelve times, then cut his head off and carried it away, she said as she glared at him.

Hey, Doc, how are Marie Antoinette and a flat beer alike? You don’t know, huh? Neither one has a head. Bitch!

Verbal sparring done, they moved on to discussing her findings. The victim had been stabbed and beheaded; that much was obvious. The wallet and jewelry were still on the body. This tended to rule out robbery as a motive, he surmised. The identity of the victim was the real ass kicker. Geoffrey T. James. The Honorable Geoffrey T. James. Federal judge, First District Court of Appeals, Las Vegas, Nevada.

Charlie felt this was the act of an organized killer, not a random act of violence. He didn’t know why the judge was targeted, but he was sure it was a planned hit.

Los Angeles

Troy was gulping down breakfast at the Sidewalk Café on the Venice Beach boardwalk. He enjoyed the early-morning activity as the vendors arrived and began setting up their various wares in the stalls they rented. Set up each morning, sell all day, pack up at night, and see yuh next morning—that is the beach merchants’ cycle.

They’d arrive each morning, seven days a week, some in vans, some in trucks, always like clockwork. That’s how they made their living. There were worse places than Venice Beach to make your money.

Troy loved the breezes, the bikinis, and he knew every parking spot around the oceanfront where you didn’t have to pay. They were all part of his stomping grounds: Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Venice Beach. His bookie was there every morning, meeting his regulars.

Troy placed his bets over eggs and hash browns. Today he was gulping down prodigious amounts of coffee, trying to counter the effects of the night before, when he nearly blew his groceries. He was just starting to swallow a hefty forkful of scrambled eggs mixed with hash browns and some biscuits as he observed what he saw as crime against humanity.

This huge woman was waddling along the boardwalk in one of those dental-floss bikinis, with everything that was ugly about a woman being put on display, top as well as bottom. This wasn’t camel toes; this was heifer toes.

I can’t believe that someone actually has sex with that, he thought as he shuddered and averted his gaze.

His appetite now ruined, he signaled for the check, paid at the register, and headed for his car.

Washington, DC

Is everyone here? Fairchild barked after seating himself.

The room remained silent as everyone glanced around the conference table, trying to spot an empty seat that would signify someone who’d get his or her ass chewed no matter what excuse they tried to fly.

I’m going to be brief and to the point, Fairchild stated as he surveyed those seated before him. Someone is murdering federal judges. It’s been occurring for six months, and to date, there have been four victims. The killer has left no evidence at any of the crime scenes, and all factors indicate that there is one individual who is responsible for all these murders. Call them assassinations, if you will.

Stunned silence pervaded the room as the think tank allowed this information to sink in.

Las Vegas

The killer ambled along as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t. Each step he took led him farther from the place he’d exacted justice on that scumbag judge, and he hadn’t heard a siren or seen any sign of pursuit. He was on top of world.

That’s one judge who won’t overrule the decree of the voters of an entire state again, he mused cheerfully as he moved at his leisurely pace down the street.

The Dumpster diver had time to reflect as he trailed the murderer at a safe distance.

Why would he take the guy’s head with him? he wondered. It seemed to him that this would add to the killer’s risk of being caught. But, he conceded, most people who murdered other people weren’t exactly geniuses in the first place. This and other thoughts were crowding his head as he continued to follow the killer, who abruptly turned into the entrance of a sprawling shopping mall.

The Dumpster diver strolled through the entrance, sighting his prey just as he turned the corner about sixty feet farther up the hallway. He raced ahead and reached the corner in time to see him step onto the escalator. Following him to the third floor, he observed him entering a cigar store. Easing along, he glanced through the window and got a good look for the first time at the man he’d been trailing.

He was about thirty years old. Five feet ten inches tall with dishwater blond hair that was cut shoulder-length and curly. He weighed approximately 190 pounds, sporting extremely broad shoulders and a bull neck as though he lifted a lot of weights.

Good nickname for this guy would be no-neck, he thought, or psycho-man.

Thy guy looked extremely powerful. When the Dumpster diver glimpsed those huge arms bulging from the killer’s short-sleeve shirt, he wondered how anyone could have arms as big as those. No wonder he snapped that guy’s head off so easily! Probably a gym rat, he figured.

The man purchased a few things and headed out. The Dumpster diver bent over as if tying his tennis shoe while peeking at him from the corner of his eye. Now carrying the bowling-ball bag and several other items, he strolled out the doorway of the mall with the Dumpster diver close behind.

Where this is going to lead, only time will tell, he thought.

Los Angeles

Yeah, I know . . . I said I know! . . . All right, you know what, man? Now, you’re really starting to piss me off! Hey! Hey! You know what, you lame-ass piece of shit? Fuck this. Yeah, that’s right, and fuck you! It’s off! I ain’t no bank, and I don’t do loans.

Troy pocketed his cell phone and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He was furious. He just had a $20,000 deal go south on him. Five pounds of killer bud at $4,000 a pound. Now his deadbeat buyer was informing him the guy financing him wouldn’t come through on time, and could he get a front for a week?

First, Troy wouldn’t front his mother a pair of shoes if her feet were frostbitten in the winter from walking barefoot in the snow. He might rent her some. Second, Troy knew the buyer and had done business with him for years. He wasn’t going to let this numbnuts owe him that kind of coin.

He has some kind of balls asking me that, Troy thought. I may just cut his ignorant ass off completely.

As he sped along the Pacific Coast Highway, leaving Santa Monica and heading toward Malibu, he was already working on plan B. A man had to make money.

He whipped out his cell phone and punched in the speed dial number for his friend Whisper. She wasn’t his girlfriend. It was difficult to say exactly what their relationship was. It went far beyond friends with benefits, although that was part of it. She was a freak, and Troy loved freaky girls.

Whisper had skin as white as chalk and hair as black as a starless night. The evening they met at the Whiskey A-Go-Go, she had reminded him of a gothic woman like a character in a Dungeons and Dragons video game. He thought she was beautiful all dressed in black with that pale skin.

Whisper had a daddy who was filthy rich. He was a big shot in the movie industry. Over the years, he’d produced a number of films that had won several Oscars, as well as nominations. She’d grown up among the Hollywood elite and their children. With daddy being as busy as he was trying to make more money, Whisper pretty much raised herself since he’d bought her a Mercedes convertible on her sixteenth birthday. Her mom was always busy with various young lovers and much too occupied to spend any meaningful time with her daughter. Still, they were good friends. Mom didn’t interfere with her life, and that was why Whisper loved her so much—plus the fact her mom gave her money whenever she asked. Whisper was a free spirit. She figured what was good for the gander was good for the goose. Mom was just getting even.

She knew daddy cheated on her. Mom was out of town doing the spa-treatment thing in Palm Springs a few years ago. Whisper was out partying with friends, planning to spend the night with her best friend Violet after hitting a few of the local spots. They swung back by her house to pick up some CDs Violet had loaned her. As they walked through the foyer and started up the stairs, they heard noises wafting down from the master suite. Not sure what they were hearing at first, they crept up the stairs and to the door, which was slightly ajar, and peeked in.

There was daddy, standing on the floor. He was pumping away inside the maid, who was on her hands and knees on the bed with a fake nurse’s uniform on and the skirt hiked up over her hips. She was rocking back and forth and moaning loudly.

The girls watched for several seconds then backed slowly away and darted down the hall toward Whisper’s room. They ran through the door and collapsed on the bed in fits of laughter. Whisper wasn’t mad at daddy. She figured boys will be boys. She’d had more than her share try to get inside her panties and a few who’d made it.

Las Vegas

As they carted the body away, Charlie was circulating among the lookie-loos, asking if anyone had seen or heard anything. As usual, negative on both counts. It was as though a phantom had appeared in broad daylight, murdered a man, then just walked away, taking his head with him. How did he carry the head away without anyone noticing, and why would he want the Vic’s head?

Charlie walked to his car, head down, deep in thought. He lowered his considerable bulk into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, and as the engine roared to life, hunkered down over the steering wheel and gunned it out of the alley and down the street.

Not far away, the killer ambled up to the nearest bus stop and took a seat on the bench. Waiting for the next one to come along, he leaned back and closed his eyes as if he didn’t have a care in the