Chapter 45

Lemmon found George Blount working at a plumbing supply store in Irvine. Blount had been twelve years old when his dad was arrested, and at forty-six he looked like a scrawnier version of the senior Blount’s mugshot photo.

Lemmon had talked to Blount earlier on the phone, so his arrival wasn’t a surprise. “We should talk someplace private,” he suggested. “My car is probably as good a place as any.”

Blount looked like he had questions he was eager to ask, but he held back, and after talking with his supervisor, followed Lemmon to the parking lot where Lemmon had left his car. Before arriving at the plumbing supply store, Lemmon had stopped at a doughnut shop, and he offered Blount coffee and a doughnut. Blount accepted the coffee but turned down the doughnut.

“I’m confused,” Blount said. “On the phone you said this is about a murder investigation?”

Lemmon had a mouthful of chocolate glazed, so all he could do was nod as a couple of crumbs tumbled out of his mouth. Unbelievable, I’m becoming Polk!

“How would that be possible? My dad died in prison in 1992. Is this about his conviction? Is the case being reopened?”

Lemmon held a finger up while he took a sip of coffee to wash down the doughnut. He wiped a hand across his mouth to brush away any further crumbs. If Polk only knew!

“No, these are for different murders.”

“Murders, as in plural?”

“Yeah.”

Blount looked crushed at that news. “Oh dear lord,” he moaned.

“This shouldn’t be much of a surprise,” Lemmon said. “You knew your dad was a hitman.”

Blount had put down his coffee so he could hold his head in his hands. “I knew he was convicted of murdering a lowlife pimp. That’s all I knew.”

The lowlife pimp Blount referred to had been the owner of a mobbed-up Hollywood massage parlor, and if Penza was right then Ed Blount had been framed for the murder, but it would’ve only confused the issue to mention that to the younger Blount.

“You never suspected your dad before his arrest?”

Blount lifted his head, his face showing a washed-out look. “I don’t know what I suspected,” he said. “Before my dad was arrested, we were planning to move to Michigan. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Grand Rapids. My dad was buying his own business, and then that arrest had to happen.”

“He’d recently come into a lot of money?”

That thought apparently stunned Blount. “I don’t know,” he said.

“How was your family financially after your dad went to prison?”

“We did okay.” Blount’s eyes took on a distant look as he must’ve been going back decades in his mind. “My mom worked, and my dad had saved some money. When he died there must’ve been life insurance, because there was money for us to go to college.”

Blount didn’t look too sure about this, perhaps wondering for the first time where the money had come from. The senior Blount would’ve charged a large sum to create the Nightmare Man, and that would explain a family-saving windfall, probably from an offshore account that Blount had told his wife about. None of this was definitive proof, but it added up.

Lemmon asked, “Is there anything that you can look back on now that makes you think your dad worked as a contract killer?”

Blount shook his head, but a shadow fell over his eyes, and that told Lemmon there was something.

“What was it?” he demanded.

“Nothing really.” Blount tried smiling at Lemmon, but it didn’t stick. “I was thinking of my dad’s workshop,” he said. “This was a room he had set up in the basement. It had a separate entrance, and he always kept it padlocked. Nobody but him was allowed inside. Not me, my brothers, or my mom. It was off-limits, and there would’ve been hell to pay if any of us ever went in there. I hadn’t thought about that room in years.”

“You ever sneak in there?”

“I didn’t have the guts,” Blount admitted.

“How about later when your dad was in custody?”

“The police had a warrant to search our home. I remember them cutting off the padlock. The next day I looked inside and saw the workshop was empty.” He managed a dismal smile. “I told you we were planning to move to Michigan. My dad had already cleaned it out.”

Suspicious behavior for being a hitman, but again, not definitive proof that the senior Blount had been the Nightmare Man.

“Ever see your dad bringing rats into the workshop?”

“What?”

“Live rats. In cages.”

“No, of course not.”

There was that shadow again.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, really,” Blount said. “My younger brother Jack was the baby of the family. A hell-raiser, and a defiant little bugger. The type who if you warn him not to do something, he’ll break his neck trying to do it. He bragged once about breaking into our dad’s workshop. I thought he was making it up.”

“He saw caged rats?”

“I don’t know. I have this vague memory about him saying something about rats, but I can’t tell you what it was. Or even if I only dreamt it.” He gave Lemmon an imploring look. “What’s this all about?”

Lemmon said, “It’s better that I don’t tell you in case we’re wrong.”

Blount’s expression became something brittle, almost as if he had guessed it was about the Nightmare Man.

“Could you be wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”