Dig One Grave, page 1
Dig One Grave
W.H. Beswick
Published by W.H. Beswick, 2024.
DIG ONE GRAVE
BY
W.H. BESWICK
Copyright2023@W.H.Beswick
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Supposedly, revenge is best served cold. On the other hand, there is the Chinese saying. If one sets out on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. The killer wondered if the man who said this quote had ever been wronged to the point of needing, not wanting. Needing revenge. The whole closure thing.
HISTORICAL ACTS OF REVENGE
PEARL HARBOR, A DATE OF INFAMY
Yamamoto, the admiral who had planned the attack, has been quoted as saying. I fear all we have done is wake a sleeping giant. He knew that the United States would retaliate, and Japan would be no match for it in the coming war.
REMEMBER THE ALAMO.
Santa Ana didn't need to attack the Alamo. He could have bypassed it. He attacked for the sake of his ego. Santa Ana's army was defeated a little over a month later. He was found hiding in a marsh wearing the uniform of a regular soldier.
KHWAREZMIAN EMPIRE
Genghis Kahn wanted a peaceful relationship with a neighboring country. The Khwarezmian ruler either refused or broke the agreement. Whatever the reason. Kahn attacked and completely wiped out the entire kingdom. Men, women, and children were all killed.
It should be noted. This event led to Kahn's campaign to conquer Asia and more. When he died, he was buried in secret. The men who buried him were killed, so his resting place would never be known.
The killer thought this was a little extreme. Millions died because Khan felt he had been insulted.
Although the Count of Monte Cristo was fictional, the killer liked how patient the Count had been, waiting and plotting. Then he attacked. The victims of his wrath didn't realize it was him until it was too late. Most movies show him regretting his actions. He is reunited with his great love Mercedes. The fact was he only regretted some of his actions. The book ends with him declaring his love for the beautiful young princess he had saved from a life of slavery. They sail off together.
The killer loved the book but doubted if the Count could truly love after his years in prison and brutal revenge against his enemies. Soon, the killer would find out if it was possible to love after his revenge was completed.
The killer looked over at the bookcase. The large bookcase was overstuffed with books. Hardbacks and paperbacks. Books on crime, psychology, profiling, mysteries, and suspense novels. Pinned to a corkboard were five wedding invitations. Below these were photos of the happy bride and groom. All the brides were young and beautiful. The husbands were not ugly, but they weren't Chris Hemsworth either.
The killer got up and went down to the home gym. There were five pictures of the five grooms taped to the treadmill. The killer started at a leisurely speed. The sneakers barely made a sound.
After a few minutes, the speed accelerated. The sneakers now made a soft thud on the rotating rubber mat.
After a half hour, the speed increased. The sneakers now made a low pounding sound. Sweat started to bead. The killer began to pant.
It was a long time before the speed was once again increased. The sneakers now gave off loud bangs on the machine. The machine trembled from heavy footfalls. Sweat started to run down the killer's face and back. The killer's breathing became more demanding and faster but still controlled.
THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.
The sound of the sneakers became louder and faster. Still, the runner was not gasping for air. His panting was harder and faster. Sweat now soaked the killer's top and shorts.
Finally, the machine slowed to a walk, allowing the runner to cool down. Five minutes later, the killer walked away from the treadmill. A mobile phone sat on the seat of one of the weight machines. It began to vibrate. One tap on the screen showed the tweet.
EVERYTHING IS READY FOR YOUR ARRIVAL.
The killer tapped out a text.
I WOULD BE SHOCKED IF THEY WERE NOT. YOU ARE THE BEST.
☺
SEE YOU SOON ☺
CHAPTER 1
Southern California is a great place to live the best life. One had to live in places like Beverly Hills, Malibu, and Bel Air, but Calabasas had become the place for the rich and famous to live.
That was the rich and famous.
Most people who lived in Los Angeles County were middle class. The husband and wife are both working. You worked two jobs if you were single. Roommates were another option, but roommates when you are in your thirties. You might as well live down in your mom's basement.
Most people need to realize that Los Angeles is a patchwork of different communities. They range from the very rich to the very poor. You could drive across the county to see fabulous estates and homes. In a few minutes, you would find yourself in some of the poorest cities in the county. It is a little-known fact that most people would love to leave Los Angeles. They just can't afford to make the move, and there are very few employment opportunities to make the move worth it. New Yorkers have the same problem.
In many cases, people are trapped in a prison without bars. Some never leave their neighborhoods. It is rumored that some people live a few miles from the beach but have never seen the ocean.
The lesson to be learned here. Don't believe everything you see on TV and the Internet.
North Hills Village is close to Calabasas. You may have yet to hear of North Hills Village. You can get off the freeway at the same exits for Calabasas—the two significant differences between the two communities. North Hills Village residents were wealthier than anyone in Calabasas, and hardly anyone knew it existed. They didn't go on the Internet and brag about it. The residents wanted and paid for privacy. There was no guarded gate, but suppose you looked like you didn't belong in North Hills. The sheriff's department or private security would pull you over and politely ask if they could help you. Though being polite, the officers were making it clear. You don’t belong here.
Arnie Smith's house sat at the top of an enormous cul-de-sac. There were three black metal gates blocking the driveways of three different houses. They were diverse in style, but all still screamed money. Arnie's house was a modern version of a white Victorian with dark green trim. The lawn was too green—the flowers in the beds lined up perfectly. An older man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat mows the yard, while a young man wearing a baseball cap tends the perfectly even hedges. A brand-new Porsche SUV is parked in the driveway.
Just down the hill on the other side of a steel fence, some kids are playing basketball in a driveway. A haggard soccer mom is getting the groceries from her SUV. A young woman comes out, takes the bags, and follows the other woman into the house. An older couple is riding by on their bikes, smiling and nodding to anyone they see.
Two neighborhoods. So close but so different.
The people rarely, if ever, walked on the sidewalk of North Hills streets. Jogged, yes, but walked only if you had a dog. Most times, someone was hired to walk the dogs. Kids? If anyon
Arnie's house has a heavy oak door that leads into the foyer. A closet is right by the front door for guests to hang their coats, along with a small, padded bench for them to sit on and take off their shoes. There was even a polite sign asking visitors to do so. Natural Oak floors scratch easily.
The foyer led into the front room. Two overstuffed sofas face each other with a round glass coffee table between them. A small bouquet of flowers and wood coasters is on the coffee table. Two more overstuffed chairs are tastefully angled toward the coffee table. There are end tables and bookcases made of light ash wood. Lamps with stained glass shades sit on the tables. A woman has decorated the room. Bright pastels and throw pillows. There is not even a TV mounted on the wall. Photos of a beautiful blonde are on a wood mantle of the redbrick fireplace. One in her wedding dress. The others with Arnie, her husband.
The kitchen, den, and small sunroom are nicely furnished. One room serves as his office. An oak desk cluttered with files and papers. A laptop sits on a side table. Two oak file cabinets are pushed into the corner. An office chair with a high back sits behind the desk. A half-eaten sandwich and an open beer bottle are on the desk's corner. There is a large wall calendar mounted on the wall behind the chair. There are notes in most of the boxes. The name Anderson with 5:00 is written on today's date.
A short hallway runs down to the garage. It is a well-organized garage with a workbench. Tools that look brand new hand from hooks made one wonder if they have ever been used. There are a few boxes neatly stacked along one wall. The floor is spotless. Not one spot of oil or grease.
Arnie Smith is forty-three with balding hair. The remaining hair is too black. An undershirt and boxers are all that cover his pudgy body. The undershirt has several holes burnt into it. His love of fast food and beer makes one wonder why he has a home gym upstairs. Red duct tape is holding a wad of cotton in his mouth. A noose is pulled tightly around his neck. It is tied to one of the garage's rafters. His hands are duct-taped behind his back. More duct tape around his knees. A heavy chain is wrapped around his ankles. The same chain binds his feet to a block of ice. The ice slowly melts, creating a puddle of water around the ice. When enough ice has melted, or Arnie slips off the block of ice. The rope will hang him. The helpless man sobs, tears running down his face. His eyes are wide with fear. He begs around the tape, but only grunts come out.
The killer sits on one of the dining room chairs. The chair had been set up by a box. A bottle of Martell Ox brandy sits on the cardboard box, an ashtray, and a small plate with chocolate-covered truffles. The killer is holding a long cigar in a leather-gloved hand. A brandy sniffer, in the other hand. The killer stands, walks over to Arnie, and blows smoke into his face. Arnie shakes his head as the cigar is lowered down toward his crotch. His scream is muffled, but he still sounds like a little girl.
CHAPTER 2
Arnie's neighbors are horrified. Three sheriff cars, the coroner's wagon, and a firetruck are parked in his driveway. There are even more cars from LAPD down the street. There is a perfectly good alley behind the house. All service vehicles are supposed to use this. Adding to the nightmare was the news van parked behind the yellow tape. People from down the hill had walked up and stood on the street watching the excitement. They knew there was a murder, but the police could have been more discrete. Worse. Uniformed police officers coming to their front door and asking questions. They quickly point out that Arnie wasn't one of them. He never fit in.
A bright red Audi RS Etron GT pulls up behind one of the police cars. Everyone, including the cops, looks back as Erin Connors climbs out. She is a tall woman with a slender body and short blond curls. Black Framed Ray Ban sunglasses cover her chocolate-colored eye. Her lips are pressed into a thin line but are slightly curled up at the ends. She is wearing a charcoal business suit with a black vest. It is not off the rack. It has been tailored to fit her to a tee. Black leather Jimmy Choo boots, a red blouse, and a thin black tie complete the ensemble.
Grace Epstein climbs out the other side of the car. She is the direct opposite of Erin, short with a pleasantly plump figure. She is cute with her blue eyes and freckles sprinkled on her face and nose. Her brown hair is longer, styled to fall away from her face, reaching just past her shoulders. Her white blouse, blue jeans, leather jacket, and sneakers probably came from Walmart. She looks around at the house. Erin moves beside her.
An older police officer yelled. “You didn’t go for the Lambo?”
"Haven't you heard of climate change?" Erin yells back. There is a slight humorous tone in her voice. She whispers to Grace. "You can't open a Lambo or Ferrari in LA."
“I wouldn’t know,” Grace says. “I drive a five-year-old SUV.”
“I have offered to buy you a new car.”
"I like my old SUV. I just got it worn in."
“It’s a car, not a pair of sneakers.”
“Nice houses,” Grace says, ignoring the comment. “Have you looked here?”
“No,” Erin said. “Too snobby. I am thinking Malibu.”
“Oh goody, I can work on my tan.”
“I thought you hated the beach?”
“Well, there is the beach. Then there is Malibu.” Grace says with a grin. “You were telling me about your date last night.”
“The evening is going great...” Erin says.
“You said that already. Get to the point.”
“Yeah, yeah...he brought flowers...
“Roses?” Grace asks, sounding excited.
“Carnations, three.”
“Just three?”
“Along with Baby's Breathe too. I guess he thought it was romantic. You're right, cheap. The play was great, and we ended up at Dante's.”
"Very nice. How did your date get reservations?"
“I got them,” Erin says, looking at her partner. “You remember that reporter who interviewed me?”
“Blonde with fake breasts and short hair?”
“No, long hair, big breasts that were real.”
“Not the one who hit on you?”
“They both hit on me," Erin said, looking annoyed. "Hey, we got in. That is all that counts. The first thing he does is order a bottle of wine, six hundred bucks. I like where this is going...
“Six hundred bucks? Geez, that's my house payment.”
Two reporters watch the detectives heading toward the house.
“Who’s the blonde with the Audi?” One asks the other.
"Detective Sargent Erin Connors." The other says. "Won the lottery last year. Five hundred million after taxes."
An older reporter pushes forward but is held back by a young officer. He yells, "Connors, what's the word!”
“Screw you!” Erin looks and says. “I saw that article! Bitch cop with bucks. Why is she still a cop.”
“My editor made me write it!”
“Then get him to give you the word.” Erin snaps.
Erin and Grace move toward the house, nodding at the other cops. A few are checking out Erin’s clothes.
“Okay, you're drinking the really expensive wine...” Grace says.
“Then we feast upon duck, lobsters, and this dessert that put five pounds on my butt and thighs just by looking at it,” Erin says. “My trainer is going to be pissed.”
“Chocolate?” Grace asks, looking hopeful.”
“Oh yeah, so I'm thinking this guy may just get lucky tonight.”
“Oh goody, I love happy endings, especially ones with hot sex.”
“Wait,” Erin says, looking at Grace. “The bill comes, and he looks at it and puts it down. Shakes his head and says. Are you ready for this?”
“No happy ending?”
“I don't know how you can afford this place...oh yeah, you won the lottery and then he laughs.
"Wait, he expected you to pay?" Grace asks, coming to a stop.
“I say, Pardon me?” Erin says cocking one eyebrow. “He shrugs and says, hey, you got the bucks. I'm just a poor working guy. A poor working guy? Geez, he's VP over at Paramount."
“Geez, what'd you do? Pull your gun?”
“No. The dress was too tight, and my purse was too small. I excused myself, went to the lady's room, out the back, and caught a cab.”
“What happened to Roger?” Grace asks, looking concerned.
