Chapter 32

Charlie Bogle wouldn’t let the argument drop. He insisted, “Brownstein didn’t do his client any favors.”

Morris shrugged halfheartedly. This had been going on for a while now. After he left Rachel’s apartment, he’d called Bogle to fill him in on Stonehedge’s discovery. Bogle had earlier watched Gallo drop off his thug associate and followed him to his high-rise apartment building. Since it appeared as if the gangster was done for the night, they decided to meet at MBI and drive to the mountain town of Wrightwood together.

“These agents are a pain in the ass,” Bogle muttered half under his breath.

“Brownstein thought he was protecting him,” Morris said.

“How exactly was he doing that? He knows I work for Starlight Pictures. He also knows who you are.”

“I’m sure the painkillers they’re giving him clouded his judgment.”

Morris’s cell phone rang. Dennis Polk. He put the phone on speaker.

“I got the goods,” Polk said, sounding pleased with himself. “Not just one photo, but a couple of dozen.”

“Is that so?”

“Damn straight. Melanie Penza was prettying herself up for a big date, like we thought. Thirty minutes ago she met up in Malibu with her boyfriend.”

“Bobby Gallo?”

“That’s right.”

Bogle checked the time and frowned. “Gallo must’ve gone back to his place for a quick shower and change. I’m betting he left right after I gave up his tail.”

“Is that Charlie Bogle?” Polk asked.

“The one and only,” Bogle said. “How are tricks?”

“Not too shabby. When I see you next we’ll catch up over some beers.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“Ha ha. Always the joker.”

Morris interrupted them, saying, “Where are they meeting?”

“Yeah, the lovestruck couple,” Polk said. “They’re using a beachfront home. Nice place, very secluded. But that didn’t stop me from snapping shots of them entering the home together. They didn’t waste any time either, and let me tell you, those two are noisy in bed. A lot of passion, also a lot of screaming, grunting, and dirty talk. A couple of alley cats going at it would make less noise. I could hear them loud and clear from outside the front door, and with the racket those two made, they never heard me pick the door lock or realize I was right outside the bedroom taking pictures of them in flagrante delicto.”

“When did you learn Latin?” Bogle asked.

“You pick things up,” Polk said. “I also know e pluribus unum. I can’t tell you what it means, though.”

Morris asked, “Do the photos clearly show their faces?”

Polk chuckled. “Among other things.”

“Okay. Good. Fred is keeping a tail on Big Joe. Give him a call and meet up with him. Charlie and I will join the two of you when we can. We’ll tackle Big Joe then.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Polk said.

The call ended, and they drove in silence for several minutes before Bogle muttered thanks. The reason for this was Morris no longer needed to bring Benjamin Chandler to Big Joe in order to get what the mob boss knew about the Nightmare Man. Polk’s photos were all that were needed. He could’ve turned the car around and headed back to Los Angeles, and not too many people would’ve blamed him if he had done exactly that. He didn’t need to explain to his friend of over twenty years why he was continuing on to Wrightwood. They had a deal. Bogle needed to bring Chandler back to Los Angeles, and Morris wasn’t about to leave him hanging out to dry.

* * * *

The cabin was set forty yards back from the road and further hidden behind a copse of pines. Even if it wasn’t dusk, it would’ve been easy to miss, and Morris had to circle back before he found the narrow dirt driveway. The lights were off inside the cabin, and it didn’t appear as if anyone was home, but as they drove up, Bogle pointed out that the blinds covering the window on the left had moved.

“Someone’s peeking out,” Morris said.

“Benjamin Chandler.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Ten to one he rabbits,” Bogle said.

“A sucker’s bet,” Morris said.

“Front or back?”

“Back.”

Morris pulled the car to a stop, and he took Parker with him, got a flashlight from the trunk, and continued to the back of the cabin while Bogle went straight to the front door. A BMW convertible had been tucked away behind the cabin so it couldn’t be seen from the front, and a porch door was swinging back and forth. Parker’s ears perked up, and he stood as still as a marble statue. Morris heard noises from the direction where Parker was staring, and in the dusk he saw a person scrambling up a mountain path. It had to be Chandler, and he already had a hundred-yard lead on them. Morris groaned. His creaky knees couldn’t handle chasing someone up a mountain.

He yelled out that they had been sent from Starlight Pictures to bring him back. That only seemed to make the man run faster, at least until he slipped and fell on his face. Bogle soon joined Morris, and they watched as the man fought to get back on his feet.

“I tried telling him who we are,” Morris said.

“He’s in full-blown panic,” Bogle observed.

The man was fading from view as he scrambled up the path.

“It’s possible he didn’t hear me,” Morris said. “The guy’s got to be part mountain goat. I’m not up to chasing after him.”

Bogle said, “Neither am I.”

They both turned to Parker, who looked more than up to the task.

Morris took him off his leash, then gave the dog an encouraging shove and ordered him to go get him. The bull terrier shot up the path.

“We better go up after him,” Morris said.

Bogle asked, “Your dog’s not going to hurt him, is he?”

“Depends how much of a fight he puts up. He’d get hurt worse if we didn’t do anything. There’s got to be rattlesnakes up there.”

The flashlight proved useful as they made their way up the trail, allowing them to make sure they didn’t step on loose stones. They moved at a more leisurely pace than either Parker or the man who they presumed was Benjamin Chandler. Still, even in the cool mountain air, they were both sweating badly five minutes later when they found the bull terrier and the man he had chased up the path.

Morris was relieved to see that the man was in fact Benjamin Chandler. If it hadn’t been him, he was going to have some explaining to do, especially seeing that the actor had been knocked onto his back, and Parker now stood on his chest, growling, with the actor’s right forearm gripped in his mouth. Even without the flashlight, Morris could see Chandler’s eyes were liquid with fear.

The actor screamed out, “I won’t say anything to the police, I swear to God!”

“Relax,” Morris grunted as he pulled Parker off the actor and had him release the forearm. No denying that Nat was right, the little guy needed to lose a few. “We’re here to save your ass. Scout’s honor.”

Bogle offered Chandler his hand and helped him to his feet. He introduced himself and Morris. The actor slowly rubbed the forearm Parker had used for a game of tug-of-war. From what Morris could tell, the skin hadn’t been broken, and if the actor had a broken bone, they’d know it already. His arm was probably bruised, but no worse than that.

Chandler looked incapable of saying a word. He blinked wildly as he looked first at Bogle, then at Morris, and finally at Parker. The bull terrier was back on his leash and grinning happily as if nothing had happened.

“I thought you were sent by Penza,” the actor said finally, as if he were in a daze.

“How about we get off this mountain and back into your cabin?” Morris said. “You look like you could use a stiff drink. You got anything down there?”

“An eighteen-year-old Glenmorangie.”

Bogle asked, “Is that a girl or a scotch?”

Chandler was too shaken up to get the joke. “Scotch whisky.”

“Okay,” Morris said. “Let’s pour a few and explain the situation to you. Are you able to walk? Do you need help?”

When Morris had first flashed the light on Chandler, the actor’s face had been a ghastly white, but now some color was seeping back into his cheeks and his eyes looked less fearful.

“You have no idea how scared I was,” he said. “When I saw your car driving up, I was sure I was a dead man. But to answer your question, I’m okay. At least I think so.”

He held out his hand in front of him, and there was only a slight tremor.

Morris handed him the flashlight, and Chandler led the way down the path. Bogle sidled up to Morris and asked in a low voice, “When were you ever a Boy Scout?”

“I never said I was. But Rachel was a Girl Scout for years, and with all the Thin Mints and Samoas I ate, I earned my honorary title.” He pointed his chin at his dog and added, “So did Parker.”