With the exception of the flour all the ingredients are laid out on the table with measured precision, the warm water at just the right temperature to wake the yeast and begin Mickey’s delectable artistry.

As if he could feel them coming to life in the large stainless bowl the young baker now adds to their growth the water and oil, giving the microorganisms a couple of seconds to react before sprinkling atop them the natural Italian spices, which also come to life upon hitting the slick texture of the canola oil. This whole process is one of timing and layering, a few more seconds before taking his handful of flour and powdering it in equally, using his other hand to gently stir with a baking spoon.

The more the concoction thickens the more Mickey works the spoon, the ingredients pushing, pulling, getting to know each other through this sticky phase until enough flour has been showered in to where all of the ingredients are now working together, not against each other, at this point Mickey only using his hands to knead.

Dust with flour.

Knead.

Dust with flour.

Now it is time to put them to sleep. To allow all the ingredients to really become one. He seals the stainless steel bowl with plastic wrap before blanketing it with a thin kitchen towel, placing it in the unheated oven for an hour so the dough not only has time to rise, but also become acquainted with its host and vice versa, for each batch of dough, just like each oven, is a unique entity and therefore should be respected as such.

Mickey uses this time to prepare his filling, chicken curry. It is one of nine signature fillings he has mastered so far, this latest being a result of today’s mission. Potatoes, bell peppers, and more spices to arouse, they mingle, they simmer, until they are ready to meet their counterpart, signaling it’s time to preheat the oven.

Still about layering and timing, for it is always about such technique, Mickey uses the next few minutes of the curry cooling down to wake up what has now become full-fledged dough. He starts off with flouring his hands, then scooping up a handful and peppering it down before smoothing it out over his tabletop. Next is to flour his rolling pin before unsealing the stainless-steel bowl and flipping it over to where the blob of dough, now double its size, is ready for the next transformation.

Knead.

Dust.

Knead.

Dust.

Until the texture tells Mickey’s hands perfection has been reached. Now time to flatten it out, each push accompanied with an exhale, each pull in alignment with an inhale, the Yin, the Yang, he becoming it, it becoming him.

Instinct tells Mickey when just the right thickness has been achieved, now replacing the rolling pin with a knife and with fluid movements cuts the dough into perfect circles, each the size of his outstretched hand.

Like the wind his movements are fluid, uninterrupted, one going into the other as he now spoons in the chicken curry filling onto each disc of dough.

On to assembling, this is where speed is at its most important, bringing up the other half of the circle of dough to enclose it into the pocket it’s meant to be, using the tines of a fork to seal the ends together.

Mickey moves on to the excess dough, once again making quick use of the knife, this time to carve out twelve miniature shurikens, placing one atop each of the dozen calzones before piercing its center with a toothpick. This not only completes the look of the tiny throwing star, but adds ventilation to the pocket food as well.

Pocket food. What calzone was originally intended to be. Other than the over-eating culture the modern world has adapted, Mickey couldn’t understand why most restaurants out there misinterpreted this specialty food from Naples, making it as big as a small duffel bag when the name itself translates to pocket trouser, as in fitting in one’s pocket. Just one of many issues he had with how the world had come to butcher his favorite food. But then again, their ignorance was his gain, their inability to even realize that the outside should be just as good as the inside the reason why Mickey had the opportunity he was heading for today.

Nearly ready to slide his prized pockets into the oven Mickey strokes a brush of egg wash over each of them before adding his last touch, sprinkles of garlic salt. In they go until golden brown, the relationship he has with his trusted oven allowing him to dress with ease into a sharp and slick look, as the magic to his future bakes with perfection.

The building is a modern-day palace, not only a skyscraper but a link to the heavens above. The first couple of floors inhabited by luxury brands, the next ninety-eight stories home to some of the richest people in the world. And then there’s the penthouse, the crown, high enough to see angels and maybe even the pearly gates.

With his insulated bag Mickey is escorted via the long elevator ride to the top, going over in his head what he has practiced countless times leading up to this point. The pitch that will not only decide his future, but his strongest of desires as well. It hadn’t been easy to track down the man who owned this building, his schedule almost as secretive as his personal life. But that’s just what Mickey had stumbled upon a few months back, believing he was trying to get the attention of the man himself when running down the chauffeured limousine and pelting its back window with pleading palms.

But when the window came down the business tycoon was not the one who had been on the other side, instead being a young beauty who left Mickey at such a loss for words that all he could say was, "hi".

How she had smiled back. How it helped crease her eyes with a look of undeniable interest enough to provide him with the words, “what’s your name?”

“Yumiko,” she had replied with a voice which had left him feeling deliciously golden brown all over.

As absurd as it was, his next question had come from his heart, which meant there was no way to filter it. “Will you marry me?”

Yumiko’s laugh had come just as the chauffeur had hit the gas. It wasn’t a “yeah right” giggle, but rather one of flattery, and maybe even further interest. But distance was now separating them, and all she could do was look back as he outstretched his hand while sending the telepathic message, I’ll find you.

This life-changing encounter had happened only a month ago. A very short period of time when you consider how normally hard it is to get the attention let alone a meeting with one of the richest men in the world. But the ocean of status which set the two apart was a journey Mickey had been determined to take, working every tip, every angle, until finally he had tracked down Mr. Hatsumi in a private airport restroom and used their supposed chance meeting to introduce himself and ask for a chance to pitch the Japanese businessman in an official meeting.

“Go ahead and give me the thirty-second version now, and if I feel it’s for me, you’ll have your official meeting soon,” he had offered.

Without a moment’s hesitation Mickey went right into it.

“The world has never been more on the go than now. Sure, we’re more connected than ever, but all that swiping means we have less and less time for a decent meal. I make calzones. Not the unhealthy kind that are either mass produced and full of preservatives or made in restaurants with low quality ingredients. My calzones are healthy, made the traditional way in both size and quality. Pocket-sized hardiness, perfect for our on-the-go lifestyles. In fact, we’d be serving from walk-up windows, the ideal locations being shopping malls and airports.”

“High quality usually means high cost,” Hatsumi said. “Something most consumers on the go are not willing to fork up.”

“Again, this is where size comes in,” Mickey countered. “It only takes a few sprinkles to bring each calzone to life. We buy in bulk, make a good deal with someone like McCormick. The numbers will be on our side, and as for the product, unless you've been in my grandmother’s kitchen, you’ve never tasted anything like this before.”

“You’ve got yourself an official meeting, kid,” Hatsumi said, handing him a business card. “Come prepared. I’ll be ready to eat.”

And now here Mickey was, like the old ninjas of Japan who used to use mastered skills to infiltrate castles. Who used to use psychological warfare to turn the tables in their favor. Sure he was here for the business opportunity, but above all else his persevering heart was set on the tycoon’s daughter.

The elevator door opens.

There to greet him is the angel herself, a look of pleasant surprise brightening her face.

Mickey unzips his insulated bag, opens it up, and offers her the first foil-wrapped calzone.

"Chicken curry filling. Your father’s favorite."

"You really do your homework," Yumiko says.

"To see you again I would have read every article ever written about your father."

Something Mickey would not have said if his escort had not already been heading back down in the elevator.

“Well, it looks like you have quite a test in front of you. My father doesn’t say yes easily.”

“I’ve made it this far,” he says.

“You have,” Yumiko smiles.

She takes him into her father’s office, where Mickey doesn’t have to say much, his culinary genius seducing the tycoon so much so that the impression stealthily places itself into the wealthy man's mind the thought of how wonderful it would be to have such a talented son-in-law.

And thus the calzone ninja has accomplished his mission.

~

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We’ll be video chronicling our trip from Mitchell to Brookings, along with the weekend of book signing and exploring!

But we need your help to get there:)

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Support is the greatest fuel for an author’s pen. It’s like a key which opens the door to the wonderous realm of creation. A feeling one must have been experiencing when coming up with the word magic.

Thus, supportive readers are like heroes within a storyteller’s own story.

If you would like to become a supportive reader of my literary work now is a great time to start, as I am in the process of writing Book 2 in my Riker Crime Thriller Series.

In addition to publishing my entire backlist of books Thursday to Tuesday here on Riker Books, Wednesdays are set aside for exclusive updates on my writing journey, including ocassional work-in-progress excerpts like the one that follows.

If you choose to become such a supporter, know that you are directly helping bring art into the world. With so much destruction going on nowadays, this is not only a great act, but a counter to desolate times, giving future generations glimpses into a past that indeed had artistic voices rising up against attempts at tyranny, genocide, and more.

Deep, but true.

And so, a break from the chaos can be a story that engages, excites, and enlightens.

For my supportive readers, here’s a sneak peek into what’s turning out to be a more intense ride than the first book in the Riker series.

Buckle up!

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Private Investigator Jeremy Riker, the central character in the Crime Thriller Riker's Calling, has agreed to meet me for lunch at a Covina burrito walk-up restaurant called Alberto's. Before we even go up to the window to order, he claims a table in the far corner of the small dining space, tossing his jacket over the chair that will soon have his back…

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Today I thought I’d share some tidbits about Riker’s Calling.

Things like how I came up with his name. Why his weapon of choice is a Spyderco. Who I based Riker on. Etc.

Something to keep your Riker fire burnin’ as I continue to write book 2.

We should come up with a name for you superfans. You know, like Taylor Swift with her Swifties?

Let me know if you have any ideas!

And now for some Riker tidbits… (Not signed up for full access yet? Come on, jump that paywall. You’ll be glad you did! FULL access to everything from Riker Books!)

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Short post today.

Finished the first two scenes in Riker book 2, The Literary Game. I believe the story is going to be at least twice as intense as the first book.

And this time around Riker has a love interest.

This is what she looks like…

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The Ghostwriter had never felt more alive. Breathing in the cool morning air he walked to work with a pep in his step. This was going to be one of the greatest days of his life, single-handedly changing the world of the crime novel. Something even the fictional character Alex Cross would appreciate.

By the time he and the rest of the crew at Barnes & Noble had everything set up for their guest of honor a good-sized line had already formed, with Kizzy and her small entourage arriving thirty minutes before the Q&A session was to begin. Eyeing the store manager as he placed a call over to Cinnabon The Ghostwriter was happy to see everything coming together as he had anticipated. One thing he hadn’t expected though, but came as a pleasant surprise, was the Seattle-based news reporter and cameraman that had made the trip down for the event. With what was about to unfold their exclusive would definitely be picked up by giants like CNN. The world would bear witness to his noble act.

Wondering just how many books surrounding them had been ghostwritten, this justice would serve as vindication for all.

With five minutes to go before show time The Ghostwriter got ready to perform his opening act. Amidst the last minute preps-- mic check, autograph pens in place, instructions to awaiting fans, etc.-- he crept closer and closer to L.B., waiting for just the right moment within the organized chaos for her to be left standing alone.

His opportunity came at the ninety-second mark, approaching L.B. in his non-threatening Barnes & Noble attire, with a copy of The Ghostwriter in hand.

“Excuse me, Ms. Cooke?

“I was wondering, before everything starts, could you-?”

Before he could finish she opened her hand for his copy, so eager to take credit where credit wasn’t deserved.

“Sure.”

With cover being flipped open and pen ready to stroke the dirty deed, she hadn’t even noticed the inscription already written inside. “Who would you like me to make it out to?”

“Actually,” The Ghostwriter replied with a big smile on his face, “this copy’s for you, signed by me.”

Confused, she looked down to the first page of the open book in her hand.

Boo! Guess who?

Yep, your cyberspace friendly Ghostwriter!

In an instant L.B.’s face went from glowing to shock, and by the time she looked back up he had already walked off. Barely able to control her nerves she then quickly looked over the book, feeling along its covers and spine as if in search of something deadly.

With ten seconds remaining L.B. was ushered to her seat, refusing to put the book down in fear of being found out.

“Good morning,” L.B.’s publicist greeted as she addressed the room full of book enthusiasts. “and welcome to the book lunch of The Ghostwriter, by hometown author, Kizzy Cooke!”

All in attendance applauded, none seeing through L.B.’s anxiousness as she forced a smile.

“We’re going to be starting off with a brief Q&A,” the publicist continued, “before moving on to the book signing. So, without further ado, Ms. Kizzy Cooke!”

Another round of applause, then she had to find her voice, trying her best to mask the nerves that threatened to choke it.

“Thank You, I really appreciate the warm welcome.

“My-”

She glanced around the room, but couldn’t spot her secret.

“My latest book, The Ghostwriter, took me on a thought-provoking journey when writing it.”

L.B. had to concentrate hard on remembering the little speech she had prepared, feeling the burn of the spotlight with every word of her rehearsed rhetoric while knowing he was out there somewhere.

“With a passionate antagonist and an ambitious protagonist I’ve come to discover through my work on this book that there is a very thin line between what we perceive as good and bad, right and wrong. I’ve found the secretive topic of ghostwriting interesting to explore, and believe my storytelling of the human condition continues with this latest book.”

Despite having uttered only a few sentences so far her throat was getting dry with the threat of truth, reaching for her Cinnabon coffee to try and relieve it.

Acting as moderator, the publicist now began to take questions, starting with a well-known book blogger.

“With this book you appear to be trying to shine a light not only on the controversial subject of ghostwriting, but also on a problem not really addressed in today’s society. Technology has both its critics and advocates, with this story seeming to side with the former. I see it as trying to give voice to those who lived life before the internet, their struggle to try and survive this new era only that much harder with people like your protagonist looking to exploit them.

Was this your intended message?”

Bravo, milady. I’ll be sure to look up your blog The Ghostwriter thought to himself from his inconspicuous place along the sidelines. He could see L.B. was struggling for an answer.

“As with most authors, my main intention was to provoke thought, not necessarily choose sides. Along with the entertainment value of it, if it gets people talking, I believe I’ve done my job.”

He could tell the book blogger wasn’t really satisfied with the answer, thinking he just might offer her an interview once this thing really blew up.

The rest of the questions were more along the lines of what one would expect from book fans, asking about character, plot, the potential for sequels. All silently being answered by The Ghostwriter, all foolishly being answered by the Lying Bitch.

While writing it he had kept the skeleton of their true story, only changing the particulars to avoid being too obvious. In the book The Ghostwriter was a veteran, having served in the Army to fulfill his obligation to his multi-generational military family. As a specialist in explosives the main character never gave up on his dream of one day becoming an author. Inspired by his time spent in trenches dug out of Middle Eastern soil he writes stories of substance in a style most would classify as Literary Fiction.

Like he and L.B.’s story, the climatic ending takes place at a book launch, only the semi-fictional version has the author/soldier exacting revenge by rigging the spine of the copy she’s about to sign for him, activating the micro bomb with one click of a palmed detonator and therefore blowing off her hand and half her face.

In reality The Ghostwriter had decided to take a more Agatha Christie approach, and when he saw L.B.’s assistant bringing her a new cup of coffee, the Cinnabon coffee he had been sure to set up a minute prior once having seen L.B. take the last swallow of her current cup, he knew he’d only have three minutes starting from her new first sip to ask his question.

The pawn had made the handoff between questions, a middle-aged super fan that The Ghostwriter saw as a housewife wasting time with compliments before she finally got around to her question. She was videoing the whole damn thing, holding her copy of the book close with excitement and potentially ruining his masterful orchestration.

One hundred and twenty excruciating seconds later L.B. was finally left to answer, and thankfully, it was as brief as her others.

With only sixty seconds remaining The Ghostwriter shot up his hand in clear view of the publicist.

“Ah, a question from one of our hosts. Yes sir, go ahead.”

When L.B.’s eyes found his she looked as though she saw a ghost, which didn’t really make him worry in spite of the news camera probably picking up on it since it would surely be attributed to what the coroner would later find.

“What do you think you’ll take away most from this latest book of yours?”

A simple enough question to not really raise suspicion, yet clear enough to where both understood what was really being asked.

“Well-”

And then it started. First with a cough, followed by her breathing

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Ghostwriting is like being a surrogate mother. The closer you get to delivery, the harder it is to give up what you’ve given life to.

Offering less than a penny a word, for work, for art they themselves could never produce. Barely enough to pay a utility bill once a book had been delivered. But that wasn’t enough. They wanted the spirit as well, demanding, in the form of a confidentiality agreement that the truth of real authorship never be told. The Ghostwriter believed that it took a special kind of dark soul to take credit for what another had put their entire heart into. The lowest of the low, the hunger these talentless posers possessed for the limelight was insatiable, with his own personal parasite, L.B., having pretty much sucked everything that was good out of him.

L.B. The initials she hid behind when robbing him. He had tried to Google the name but no potential suspects came up. Not knowing if it was even a male or female, The Ghostwriter had his own take on what the abbreviation stood for. Lying Bitch/Lying Bastard. Worked either way.

Turns out, truth was destined to eventually set itself free. It happened one day at a Barnes & Noble.

Ever since he could remember book stores had been both his playground and aspiration. If his mother wanted to have a peaceful day of shopping all she had to do was drop him off in one and the boy would stay content for hours on end. As he got older he started imagining his own stories up on those shelves, with not one weekend going by where he didn’t lose himself in some book shop. And so his treasured past time had remained, the only thing having changed was that he was now on the hunt for his own work.

Although The Ghostwriter knew it had to be out there somewhere, (otherwise he never would have been paid for it to begin with) it still took him by complete shock when he had come upon that first book. The title could have been changed to absolutely anything, and as far as L.B.’s real name, who knew? That is until one name stood out in its bold caps.

KIZZY COOKE

It just had a dishonest sound to it, at least to him. Like he had done a million times before he began flipping through the book, but this time the words looked familiar, the sentences too close for comfort, the paragraphs causing him to shake. Only when his brain started to say the words before he read them did he truly believe it.

The Ghostwriter’s heart was now thudding through his ears, looking at his book that was not his book. Looking at all the other books displayed alongside it. He had made it. His work, there for anyone to discover. To fall in love with.

But then the extreme pain of reality burst within him. L.B., who was really Kizzy Cooke, taking credit for his soul. He tore to the back cover and there she was, a smiling fraud, with a little caption on the bottom stating that she lived in Spokane, Washington.

A deal with the devil.

That’s the thought that kept boiling in his head, his first instinct being to track her down in person. But then logic crept in, telling himself that he would be brilliant, methodical, like when creating one of his stories.

The Ghostwriter wanted to buy the book. To take it to his ex wife who had recently divorced him and throw it in her face for not believing in him. To show it to his seven-year-old daughter she had taken from him.

You see sweetheart, daddy was telling the truth!

But such first instincts were not worthy of what was owed to him. Redemption would come in due time, karma bestowed, and with this self-reassurance he was able to step back and plan ahead, starting with sending his target an email that very day.

Boo! Guess who? Yep, your cyberspace friendly ghostwriter! I know we weren’t scheduled to talk until next month in regards to starting the third book, but I’ve been hit with such an inspiration this afternoon that I think it would be a crime not to take advantage of it while the creative juices are flowing, you know?

I have a very strong feeling this one’s going to be bigger than the past two. Of course due to our arrangement I have no idea how the first one did, and can only guess that your publisher is about to release the second soon if they haven’t done so already. But I believe this one’s going to take you to a whole new level, as in joining the hundred-million-copies club!

Remember a few years ago when we first found each other? When we spoke about showing some diversity in the writing once you became established?

Well, I presume you’ve been able to do such since we’re still working together and you were able to increase my pay to one and a half cents per word on that last book.

They’d probably classify this new story I have in mind as crime/mystery, which is actually a smooth transition from the Literary Fiction we’ve been doing so far.

Picture this:

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IT WAS TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT. Heslehurst, masked as a light-skinned Latino, sat with his lap dog Amber at his side as the two watched from the inside of their rental car the streets of Hollyweird grow in freaks. This was the time of night Cenobites Cove served their most unusual of costumers, from twelve to two a.m., the Woolly Mammoth in the dog collar arriving to put in his six hours of working the front end of the shop while doubling as security.

Jules, the owner of the place, looked like a demon straight out of hell, with ink covering every inch of her body, enough piercings on her face alone to fill up a jewelry display case, and horn implants that looked like they could come bursting through the skin at any time. She’d be behind the curtain with Jaime, the two modifying body parts late into the night.

“You do what I say when I say,” Heslehurst instructed Amber, now helping her put on a backpack before sliding an empty orange juice container over the chamber of his handgun and handing it off to her. “Always watch my back, and if something goes wrong, remember, the most important thing is to get the report uploaded.” He caressed the side of her head. “It’s our work. The world is counting on us to tell them the truth.” She shook her head in agreement to her master’s words, and when he sealed it with a kiss, Amber knew she’d follow him to the depths of hell if she had to.  

Heslehurst grabbed a long duffle bag, and the two headed inside.

“What can I do you for?” the mountain of a man behind the counter asked as Heslehurst approached.

“Hey, how’s it goin’? I got some ink done about a week ago from Jaime. Looks like I need a touch-up.”

“Alright, come on back.”

But getting a better look at that big ol’ duffel bag slung over Heslehurst’s back, Woolly Mammoth had second thoughts. “What’s in the bag?”

Heslehurst laid it on the counter and unzipped it enough to show some tripods and a key light. “We’re indie filmmakers. Gonna be shootin’ some things in Hollywood tonight.”

“Alright, come on.”

The curtain was pulled back and the unsuspecting giant led the two inside the working space. Heslehurst’s heart began to beat faster at the sight of his Jaime, her fast-paced needle working on the back of a biker. He then caught sight of Jules, a more fatherly feeling coming over him, one of disgust, as she was in between the legs of some asshole, tattooing his hard-on, right there out in the open for Jaime to see.

“Hey Jaime, this guy says you gave him a tat last week, and he needs a touch-up.”

Her foot came off her pedal, and she flipped off her tattoo machine and looked up, taking in the Latin face of the guy in front of her. “Are you sure it was me? I’ve only been here a few days, and I don’t remember doing one for you.”

Heslehurst began to unbutton his white dress shirt, waiting to open it up until he got down to the last button. Eyes continually staring into Jaime’s, he then did so, revealing Darling Nikki.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make sense of it as her eyes darted back and forth from the tattoo of what she now knew to be her mother and the face she didn’t recognize.

Heslehurst reached up to his neck line and started to peel away skin, the brains of everyone in the room going into a scramble as he tore his face off his face. Everyone that is except for Amber, who used the perplexing moment to reach into her coat pocket for her master’s gun.

He handed the silicone mask over to Woolly Mammoth, who was still too stunned to have anything but tunnel vision, Heslehurst’s free hand now wrapping around the heavy metal Amber placed into it. He immediately brought it up and fired a hole into the giant’s head, not waiting to watch him fall before doing the same to the biker.

The guy with the inked hard-on was now cowering behind Jules’ tattoo chair, leaving her to fend for herself. A couple of seconds later and he too was put down.

“BABE!” Amber yelled just as Jaime lunged for Heslehurst, giving him the opportunity to step aside and push her to the floor. “Do that again and you’ll join ‘em.”

He pointed his barrel at Jules. Although she was an extreme example of Jaime’s art, he respected the demon chick’s dedication. “Get in the corner. Both of you get in the corner now.”

I WAS MAKING GOOD TIME through The Grapevine, spending it winding through the hills while trying to crack the complexity of Heslehurst’s fucked up mind. After spending half our lifetime in control of it, to a certain extent anyway, it was obvious he was now beginning to lose it. How long had he expected this game to go on? We were both getting older, physically slower, and yes, in an ever-changing world. How did he expect to end it? Murder suicide? Going underground? But he had a face recognizable to millions. How would he continue?

My phone rang. Another unlisted number, another disposable phone. It had to be him.

“What do you want?”

“Uncle Riker?”

“Jaime?! Jaime, where are you?!” I had to pull over to the side of the road. “Jaime?!”

“Do you know some of the shit they do in this place?!” Heslehurst asked. “Do you know what I caught Jules doing right in front of Jaime?!”

“What do you want? What-?”

“How far out from L.A. are you?”

“About two hours.”

“The key will be under the mat. Come alone, or you’ll never see her alive again.”

As I stepped on the gas, I never felt more hopeless, more vulnerable in my life.

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~Last week’s last sentence~

It would be a homecoming not only twenty-six years in the making- he had left at the tender age of seventeen- but for him, his whole forty-three years in waiting, for he was about to serve the coldest dish of revenge these parts would ever know.

Episode 23

JASON HESLEHURST. The name I discovered when digging into Royce Riggs’ past. He had filed for the name change on his eighteenth birthday, the petition having been approved by the Los Angeles County court system a month before his first year as a college student. Pulling a few strings, I was able to get some of his school records pulled up, enough to tell me he had grown up in the small mountainous town of Greenville, California. So small that it was only eight square miles.

Convincing Jaime to come on down to Los Angeles had went smoother than I thought it would, mainly due to the fact that she was able to set up a tattoo job with an online friend who was from the area. I figured the last place Heslehurst would want to be was in the city where he had gained his notoriety, so with Jaime as safe as she could possibly be I headed up north, hoping that by going to the origins of his madness I’d be able to better understand the psychopath.

“They’ve always been a disturbed bunch if you ask me,” Sheriff Wilkinson told me as we climbed the half mile slope up to the Heslehurst house. His patrol car couldn’t make it up the sharp incline, so we had no choice but to close the distance by foot. “The only thing they really have goin’ for ‘em is the deed to this mountain, the rent they collect on the base of it enough to sustain ‘em. Haven’t been down off the top in God knows how long.”

“How long have they owned the land?” I asked.

“Oh, I’d say it’s been in the family nearly a hundred years now. Started off as a slaughterhouse of sorts, folks from all around these parts comin’ to ‘em for just about any meat under the sun. That went on till the early ‘70’s, till more civilized laws hit the books and eventually put ‘em out of business.”

“Do you remember Jason? What was he like?”

“You know, they say only so much dumb can come out of a family. That somewhere along the line, the law of numbers has to take effect. If I didn’t believe such a thing before, I certainly did once that boy came along. He was smarter than a whip! While most kids his age was being sent to the principal’s office for not payin’ attention, he’d be in there for fightin’ with his teachers. Tellin’ ‘em how wrong they were on this subject or that.

“Once he hit intermediate and joined the school paper, this whole town was on edge. Tryin’ to print up every little secret there was. And when the faculty put a stop to it, he’d print up his own. And I swear, half the bad that went on around here, I just knew he was behind it, but could never prove it. Next day, sure as the sun rises, there the incidents would be, hot off the press.”

“Did he ever show violent tendencies?”

“Every now and then someone’s pet would come up missin’, found a day or two later butchered to the bone. But again, could never prove who done it.”

“He moved away after high school?”

“Same day as he got his diploma and gave his Valedictorian speech. Had someone drive him to Marysville, where he supposedly got on a Greyhound. Wasn’t till years later when I saw him up on the TV. New name, new look. But those eyes. That’s one thing he couldn’t change. So intent, they could burn a hole right through your soul.”

“Does his family know about his success?”

“I doubt it. They’ve never had a cable line comin’ up here. Far as I know, they’re still only watchin’ VHS movies. Still rentin’ them from a small place in town.”

“Was his family abusive towards him?”

“He’d sometimes go to school with a bruise here or there, and they’d call me in when they were big enough to really cause concern, but the kid would always talk his way out of it. A fall. An accident. Never from a problem at home.”

We finally reached the Heslehurst house. It was aged, the landscape overgrown, the whole place only kept up enough to barely be livable. A dog came scampering out the front cracked door, licking red off his lips and paying us no attention as he found a cool shaded area to lay down and take a nap.

Doubting he had gotten into some marinara sauce, the sheriff and I withdrew our guns. With no answer from our knock, we proceeded on in.

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FROM RUBIK’S TO RUBIDOUX, bird to falcon, I only had to drive about an hour outside L.A. to get to the middle school. From the principal to the janitors, there were seventeen males on staff, so I thought I’d start from the top and work my way down. Principal Shannon Plemons was a creature of habit, leaving his home, arriving at work, leaving his office, arriving at home, always at the same time, always departing with a bag lunch and returning with two quarter pounder meals and two happy meals. A lot of McMeals for someone who supposedly lived alone.

Then there were the diapers, about six a day, Plemons tossing them in his garbage can every morning as he pulled away. He either had one of the freakiest bathroom habits I’ve ever heard of, or he was hiding a toddler somewhere in there. After three days, enough to know this was in fact his routine, I lifted one of the diapers, as well as the fast food straws, with the intention of getting them tested for DNA. When going in for the dirty deed of actually extracting it, I didn’t expect to find something that would take my feeling from suspicion to a sense of urgency, but that’s exactly what happened when I discovered a used tampon hidden alongside the baby crap. If my instincts were correct, this would be a case of long-term abduction, Dory confined somewhere on that property with at least one kid fathered by Plemons. If this was true, it meant she was still alive, but without more solid evidence, bureaucratic red tape would keep authorities from going in, so while the principal was out overseeing a couple thousand teenagers, I popped the lock of his back door and let myself in.

READING THE TELEPROMPTER AS ROYCE RIGGS, Helsehurst could barely keep it together, the repetition slowly killing him from the inside out. Every year for the past half dozen or so it had been getting worse, making him seriously consider prematurely bringing his grand scheme to a close. Before, killing was just part of setting up for the reward, like doing warm-ups before a game, the real euphoria, his touchdown, being the actual reporting of it. Now he actually found himself yearning to reconnect with those murderous moments, as a means to release the tension, the frustration of what his work, his life, had turned into.

He had barely made it to the nine year mark, September, 2016, no longer being able to handle what the news industry had become. Regurgitating everything to the point of disgust. Calling just about anything breaking news, and keeping it labeled as such long after the fact. He could remember when breaking news was just that, breaking, having an expiration period of about fifteen minutes. Nowadays they were still calling it such twenty-four hours later. The repetition enough to drive anyone insane.

His latest sentence of purgatory reporting was on The Ghostwriter. A disenfranchised writer who had snapped and now had the publishing world on edge. At least it was a story he could somewhat relate to, with it even managing to bring out his competitive side a little.

I was here before you, and now that I’m finally returning back to the game, you’re going to be yesterday’s news.

PRINCIPAL PLEMONS’ COMPUTER WAS A CARD CATALOG OF KIDDIE PORN, his taste for taboo primarily centered around girls of middle school age. He had a few camera angles of a live feed from the girls locker room of his own school, along with profiles on many would-be victims. It looked like he was about ready to put in an order for two this time. Little did he know his pedophile brokers were now in the Los Angeles County jail. A place he’d be calling home very soon.

On the surface, the house showed no signs of anyone living there except for Plemons, but by the time I got to the basement door and found it to be padlocked, it was pretty apparent what I was going to find on the other side. I gave a light tap of five knocks.

Like an echo, five came back.

I put my ear to the door, gave three more.

Two answered back this time, followed by a hush and a scolding whisper. “Stop it, Mary-Anne!”

I picked the padlock and opened the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Plemons. She thought you were trying to play with her. It won’t happen again.”

After ten years, the asshole still made her call him Mr. Plemons?

“Dory? Dory Thompson?”

“H-h-hello? Whose there?” Her voice was now shaky, foreshadowing what was about to come. I hurried downstairs and found an image that will stay with me for as long as I live.

Three human beings. Human Beings. Two completely naked, a pregnant woman in her early twenties, with a stomach full of black and blue, which I would later find out to be from Plemons beating her to try and terminate the pregnancy, sitting there with her four-year-old daughter and eighteen-month-old in nothing but a diaper.

Each of these three living, breathing, human beings had a shackle around their right ankle, linked to a chain that went no further than six feet.

Five feet away sat a seatless toilet bowl, a bucket at its side for manual flushing. The only other things inside the windowless basement was a bare mattress, an old black and white TV, a few plush toys and a pile of books. Hundreds of them.

When Dory laid eyes on my face, the first she had seen in a decade that wasn’t Plemons or her two kids, she broke down in a flood of tears.

Two days later Dory’s parents would be found dead, by way of Spyderco.

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AS JAIME CLEANED HER TOOLS OF THE TRADE and closed up for the night, the soundtrack to the film Purple Rain filled The Tackle Box. It was quiet outside, the gentle breeze tickling a nearby wind chime and sometimes picking up as it skimmed over the water, in effect creaking the wood of the old docks as well as sending a little sway to the boats they were tied to.

Heslehurst deepened the sound of the shifting wood as his weight came down on the planks, stopping right outside the door of the small shack and reading its disclaimer.

INTOXICATION = NO INK

With a light knock, he opened the door and peered inside. “Good evening, mind if I inquire?”

“Come on in!” Jaime replied.

He did so, closing the door behind him and looking over the small space. On one of the shelves, the plush dolphin Riker had given Jaime when she was a newborn.

 “Cool little place you got here.”

“Thanks, but it’s actually my grandparents. But I plan on having my own someday, minus the bait! So you’re thinkin’ about getting inked?”

“Sure am.” Heslehurst had chosen to approach Jaime as himself, not being completely sure he could have fooled her with one of his prosthetics. It was a bit of a gamble, but so far she was showing no signs of recognition. After all, not many her age were CNN viewers.

He brought his right forearm forward so she could see it. “Got this one a few months back, and been thinkin’ about getting another one.”

Unlike the pirate treasure chest of gold he had showed her years ago, this tattoo was real. It was the nightscape of Los Angeles, lit up like Vegas, fast-forward traffic at its base. In the foreground, a silhouette of someone from the back. A back that happen to be pretty prominent, kind of reminding Jaime of her uncle.

“Cool tat! Where’d you get it?” she asked.

“Some place in L.A. called Cenobites Cove.”

“Oh, Jules’ place!” she said with a new surge of excitement in her voice. “She’s an online friend. We’re hoping to meet each other someday.”

“She’s cool. Kinda scary at first sight, but very interesting.”

“That’s Jules,” Jaime agreed. “So, what’d you have in mind for your next one?”

Heslehurst took a rolled-up piece of paper from the inside of his windbreaker. “Well, some might see it as disturbing, but since you’re a friend of Jules, maybe you can see the art in it. I’ve been working with an artist to get it right, and I think we nailed it.”

He unrolled the paper, revealing a woman sitting in a rocking chair breastfeeding her newborn, head tilted down to where you couldn’t really see her face, throat slashed, blood pouring down over bosom and baby.

“Kinda has a renaissance feel to it, don’t you think? Like Caravaggio’s painting of the beheaded general?”

“I can see that. Pretty intense! Where did you want it?”

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I FELT UNEASY leaving Jaime, then again, I’ve never felt completely confident in doing so. L.A. was my soul, darkened by experience, the city lights like the thrill of bringing down evil, while she was my heart, nestled in a boat yard, secretly kept from all that was bad. Or so I liked to believe. In reality I had no idea if he knew where she was, but if he did, it meant he would be able to find her anywhere. I had contemplated moving her out to stay with me the last time he had struck, but doing so could have created more harm than good, especially given the line of work I’m in.

Lately I’ve been emailing, texting, calling her twice as often as I normally do, not yet ready to tell her my reasoning behind it. That based on events of the past, I believe this ninth month of the year, this ninth year since he was last active, will be when he chooses to resurface.

She really has no idea, too young at the time to pay attention to news reports. But the day I have dreaded for so long is now fast approaching, and knowing Jaime, knowing the respect she has for truth, she’s going to want details. Details that if not given by me, will be given to her by the world. Oh how I long for the days before the internet.

As I pulled into the parking lot of Union Station I knew I had to get focused. At least one life was depending on me to do so, maybe more. There was no evidence to prove Dory was even alive, having been kidnapped a decade earlier at the age of thirteen. Something was telling me she was. Maybe just that small thing called hope, transferred to me from her desperate parents when they came into my office six months ago.

As with all my cases, I couldn’t help my first thought being he was somehow behind it. He, the elusive psychopath who, for reasons I couldn’t understand, had latched onto me like a disease I couldn’t shake. A dark shadow, that for nearly half my life now, has been looming over me from a distance. But sooner or later I always end up finding the same conclusion; if it doesn’t involve a Spyderco, it’s not him.

Like a superstitious pre-game ritual, whenever my leads take me to the downtown area I make a habit of parking at Union Station and going in on foot. The walking time gets my juices flowing, my mind in the right place, and tonight was no different.

These streets hold a million different secrets, the gutters lying there as timeless witnesses to the modern day savagery of humanity. A fact that can drive you insane if you let it. You can only do so much, one case at a time, and hope that by the time your lights go out, the street sweeping you were able to do made at least a little difference.

I had my latest  hot spot narrowed down to a two-block radius, which if you consider every alleyway, every dark corner and squatter space, would be at least four times the area. It was for this reason that I just had to take my time and roam, waiting for a rat to come crawling out and offer his assistance for a price.

“Hey man, what you lookin’ for?” It was a junkie, no doubt in between riding high, chariots of smack. “Nose candy? Pussy paradise? A deep throat?”

“How ‘bout cherries?” I asked. “Just about ripe? About to get picked any day now?”

“Yo, can take you to cherry pie a la mode! No joke! New batch be bakin’ right now, know what I’m sayin?!”

I held up a hundred dollar bill. “Take me to the bakery.”

Through my deep jacket pocket I held my nine millimeter, following him through a maze of alleys. Past a cesspool of human parasites, scrounging, feeding of one another, until we reached the shell of what once could have been a factory, my guide taking me no further than a broken out window that was ground level.

He pointed to the palm-sized flashlight I held. “You take that, go down in there. It’s like a combo lock- three rights, one left, one right, stop. Sometimes they have a slice right there, ready and waitin’. Sometimes you’ll have to put in an order and wait awhile.”

I handed him the hundred, and just like that he scurried off, back into the filth of the forsaken.

Inside, it was like one of those if-these-walls-could-talk kind of places, more haunting than any battlefield, more eerie than any cemetery, for you just knew that the loss of innocence that had occurred within these walls was staggering. There were stained mattresses atop rusted bed frames, each ornamented with four pairs of handcuffs for a four-point restraint. Before the final right turn I stood there and listened, picking up on one pair of hands preparing drugs, another pair occasionally striking the keys of a laptop.

As I turned into the room

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PART THREE

NORMALIZED

(September, 2016)

“SO HAVE YOU GIVEN ANY MORE THOUGHT TO MY OFFER?” Riker asked Jaime, the two seated across from each other over lunch at their favorite seafood restaurant, The Charleston Marina right outside their window.

“You’re already an amazing artist, but it can only strengthen your skills. Just imagine being able to study the greats, while taking your work to the next level. I’ll take care of everything- tuition, books, dorm, unless you prefer to live off campus. You could look for an apartment. We could start hunting for a good school, get you set up for Winter Semester?”

“I can’t promise anything, Uncle Riker, but maybe we can aim for next fall. You know I’ve been waiting for this day from as far back as I can remember.

“Now that I can finally start inking real skin, I’m gonna need this first year to gain experience. To really get my name out there.”

“Couldn’t you do both? Part time studies, part time slingin’ ink?”

Jaime laughed. “Look at you! Aren’t you the hipster!

“Treat your passion like it’s a past time, you’re a hobbyist. Treat it like it’s your life, you’re an artist.”

“Wow. And look at you! Ms. Philosopher!”

This is the kind of rapport they always had, playing off each other like a comedic duo, enjoying each other for a couple of days every couple of months.

“Talking about giving it a little more thought, remember what you promised me a couple of years ago, on my sweet sixteen?”

“Yeah, but I already told you, it’s not that easy booking Beiber.”

“Ha, ha! I’m not talking about your secret wish list.”

She had become so matured, so fast, now a beautiful young adult that was ready to take on the world. But Riker wasn’t quite ready. Wasn’t ready to see her spread her wings and fly beyond the marina. And definitely wasn’t ready to answer her questions about what really happened to her mother. He had side-stepped and avoided the subject for all these years, even buying more time two years ago when he got her mind off it by giving her a new tattoo machine and a two-year supply of artificial skin.

“You have my word. Next time we see each other, I’ll tell you everything. It’s just that, with your birthday and all. Well, this is your big day. Your biggest of days.”

“So it’s really that bad, huh?”

I could do nothing but change the subject, Jamie seeing that talk of this was starting to get to me and therefore letting me do so.   

“What are you gonna give yourself?”

“You’re just gonna have to wait and see, just like everyone else. But I will go ahead and tell you where…”

She had her elbow up on the table, side of her head resting against the base of her palm. Holding her position, she glanced down to her forearm, then back up to Riker.

“Your forearm?”

“Prime real estate.”

“Just don’t get too crazy, too fast. Next time I see you, I still wanna be able to recognize you.”

“There’s only so much space, I’m in no rush. Have you decided what you want yet?”

“Still gonna have to politely decline.”

“I’ll break you someday. You know you’re dyin’ to show the world what a belieber you are!”

Pappy entered the restaurant and made his way over to their table. “We’re all set up, sweetie. Everyone’s come out to support you.”

The three headed out, Riker taking a moment to pay the bill before catching up. He hadn’t given much thought to the woman who had been seated at his back, other than to include her in his initial mental map of the place when he and Jaime had first sat down.

An inconspicuous woman, probably a traveller just passing through, enjoying her chicken salad and iced tea on this sunny September afternoon.

Five minutes later and the woman had joined the big crowd out in front of Davey Jones’ Locker. Some were tourists, but most were part of the seaside community, there to cheer the young eighteen-year-old on as she tattooed herself for the first time for all to see.

Little by little, the woman was eventually able to make her way to a good vantage point, standing not that far behind the teen’s uncle and grandparents as the ink on Jaime’s forearm began to form a colorful work of art that appeared to magically take shape. This was the skill of all great artists, wasn’t it? To create beauty out of nothing but simple items? The image coming to life was that of

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A gust of wind must have blown over Cindy when she was born, for she was a bright apple that indeed fell quite the distance from Daddy Riker’s twisted tree.

Despite having been raised by him, if you could even call it that, she had a natural ambition she couldn’t explain. A determination that helped her block out most of the awful things she grew up hearing. Things like how her mother had left when she was only five months old because she couldn’t stand her. Or how she was nothing to him but a welfare check. Sometimes the harsh words really brought her down, but it was movies and television that helped instill into her, hope. It was like no matter what went on around her- the drugs, the whores, the crime- that box she would watch for hours every day was like a surrogate parent.

Now a drive-thru cashier and a community college film student, Cindy had had no idea that she had a half-brother out there.

That is until recently, when she started seeing footage of Riker on the news, but the question to her father was quickly dismissed.

“Look dad, that’s the guy I was telling you about! The P.I. with our last name. Don’t we look like we could be related?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Daddy Riker had boastfully said between coughs and sucking on his bong. “I’ve fucked so many women, I can’t even remember their faces!”

Ah, what a soap opera Heslehurst had been entertained by. It reminded him of that Jim Carrey movie, The Truman Show.

Cindy had a habit of eating lunch under one of Citrus College’s far-off trees, the only peace and quiet in her busy day. It was far enough to where any passing students or faculty, including those who were like her and enjoyed lunch on the grass, would only be able to recall someone in a groundkeeper’s uniform, if anything at all, when later questioned by authorities. Wearing his sunglasses and cap, with a fertilizer pack strapped to his back, Heslehurst approached Cindy’s tree from behind her, spraying spots here and there as he made his way around.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t see you sitting there,” he said when he got to her side.

“That’s ok, I don’t think you got me.” She looked down at the sandwich in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “this stuff’s all natural. Couldn’t hurt a bug. Speaking of which…”

He reached down by her shoulder and flicked one off the tree bark. “Wonder where he came from.”

Using the opportunity to take a knee, he did so while flicking open his Spyderco, using the fertilizer gun in his other hand to poke around. “Sometimes I feel like a Ghostbuster with this thing on!”

As soon as she laughed he swiped, not waiting to see her moment of shock before pulling her forward and skewing her through the spine, and just as he had practiced, it went off without a hitch, the extra weight of the fertilizer pack not being an issue.

With gloved hands he guided her back up by the shoulders to her original position, taking a minute to spray the grass around them, especially where he had stepped, with his special concoction, to erase the area of disturbance.

“Sorry, Cindy, but sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we can’t get away from those we come from. Who knows how any of our lives would have turned out if Daddy Riker hadn’t been a bong sucker. Maybe you and P.I. Riker would have grown up knowing each other. You can die knowing he’s a good man.”

Heslehurst took one more scan of the area before being on his way.

“I understand how fond you can be of this little patch of peace. It’s nice. I’ll see if I can’t get em’ to make a memorial out of it for you.”

So far Heslehurst was making great time, following behind Mother Riker’s 1:35 bus on route to her two o’clock shift start at Walmart.

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ROYCE RIGGS

How was Riker able to come so close

to saving Lehman, yet was nowhere

to be found when his partner was being butchered?!

The whereabouts of Nicole Moore’s daughter have never

been made public, so perhaps he’s somewhere guarding

her from this psychopath. One can only wonder. Even more

puzzling, how was the Spyderco Killer able to get so close

as to take out the two cops guarding Scofield? Some

stranger walks up with donuts, so early that early risers

aren’t even up yet,

and they don’t question this guy?!

I’ll admit I’m guilty

of indulging in a few Krispy Kreme’s every now and then

myself, but come on! To completely let their guard down?!

Who is this guy, a ninja or something?! Ask me, I say

he’s one of them. Think about it. Who else could get so

close?

If they’re going to crack this case,

authorities need to start looking at their own.

“Hello?”

“Mom, it’s me. Are you o.k.?”

“Oh, thank God! I’ve been so worried. I’m fine. Are you where I think you are?”

“Yeah, all is well.”

But it wasn’t, Riker’s voice beginning to crack a little on the other end of the line.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. They’ll be putting him to rest at the end of the week, full honors. His family wanted me to let you know just how much you meant to him. They completely understand you not being able to attend, and said all matters relating to the will can wait.

“Do you think he really has any idea where you might be?”

“I don’t know, it might have been a ploy to just get me away, but I can’t take any chances.

“Why don’t you come on-”

“Now don’t say another word. There’s no way we’re risking- She’s the closest thing to a-, you know.”

“Why don’t you go stay with Aunt Mary, then? Just for awhile.”

“Again, in your heart you know it’s too risky, to endanger anyone else. Don’t worry sweetie, all the neighbors are helping to keep an eye on me. And patrol cars are making their presence known at least once an hour. Besides, there’s still the alarm, and the double barrel I always keep by my side.    

“On the news the other night they said it could be someone on the force. Do you think they’ll lookin’ into that?”

“I’m sure they’re trying to cover all angles. Just try not to watch too much of that stuff, ok? It’ll keep you on edge.”

“There’s just one of ‘em I really watch. You know me. Nothin’ comes between my Jeopardy and celebrity chefs.”

“Keep that alarm on, mom. I’ll try to call you in a few days. I love you.”

“Oh sweetheart, I love you too! More than life itself. Stay safe on your end.”

“I will.”

Heslehurst laughed when the line went dead. Laughed at how they avoided saying certain things, as if someone were listening in on them, yet obviously not truly believing it. He had been a fly on Mother Riker’s wall for a number of years now. A bug in her phone, an eye in her computer camera. All part of his blueprint. All part of being the unseen god in their universe.

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@RoyceRiggs BREAKING NEWS! Spyderco Killer & P.I. Riker have near showdown at L.A. hotel! Turn on @CNN!

@RoyceRiggs Last night actor David Lehman killed at scene! Riker survives with gunshot wound to arm, no sign of Spyderco Killer.

HESLEHURST HAD WITNESSED THE SHIFT CHANGE THROUGH HIS SCOPE before heading out to The Cecil Hotel. One uniform stationed out front, the other out back, protecting their own around-the-clock as Max attempted to recover from inside his home. Now only half the man he used to be, even Heslehurst had been surprised by the outcome of Cassie’s sacrifice to the game, thinking at very best Max would suffer from something mild, mild being the key word. A mild heart attack or mild stroke. But to have been stricken in such a way that it caused paralysis of the ol’ man’s entire left side of his body?! A perfectly poetic symbol of The Spyderco Killer’s work.

From the way they appeared and the ease in which they moved he was ninety percent sure the two cops weren’t wearing vests, which would allow him the up close and personal kill, as opposed to taking them out from a block away with his rifle. Something he wouldn’t have felt completely confident in doing, even with the hundreds of hours of practice time out on the range.

As always, Heslehurst went through the scenario in his head one more time, then looked in his rear view mirror at his own reflection. Just as with Cassie and mother and daughter Williams he’d be himself, no porn look. He put his car into drive, stepped on the gas, and proceeded to take the short drive down to Max’s house.

The neighbors were still asleep on this early Sunday morning, the cop seated on the front porch standing to his feet in tired stiffness as Heslehurst walked up the path with two oversized, non-threatening boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts, one staked atop another, both concealing his gloved hand which held a Spyderco.

The look of recognition across the cop’s face immediately eased the situation “Good morning,” Heslehurst greeted. “Thought you boys could use some breakfast.”

“Very kind of you, sir! They didn’t inform us we’d be receiving a visit this morning. You’re here to speak with Detective Scofield?”

“Sure am. Thought it would be easier than asking him to come downtown for a talk, you know? Captain Lennox was going to join us, but when he found out that my schedule would only permit me to come out here at dawn, on a Sunday, he politely declined.”

They shared a chuckle.

Heslehurst lifted the cover off the top box with his free hand. “Here, have one, or two, got plenty.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So how is he? Doing better?”

Just as the cop took his first bite, just as he was at his most vulnerable between chewing and answering the question…

“Well, you know Detective Scofield. He’s a fighter-”

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WHILE THE OTHERS WERE NOTHING MORE THAN NECESSARY, this one would be personal. Heslehurst adjusted his wig and porn stash as he made his way up the first six flights of grimy stairs of The Cecil Hotel. He had spotted Lehman up on the fire escape, legs dangling as he sat out above the filth of downtown L.A. spending his Saturday night studying a script f…

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