True Crime Book Series Set In 1970s Los Angeles
Murder By Increments by OJ Modjeska
Series excerpt
Lissa was a professional dancer, but waitressing was how she had been paying the bills while she muddled through a strange, transitional period in her life.
She had spent much of the last year feeling under the weather, and for the time being, she wasn't rehearsing or performing with the LA Knockers. They were a distinctly weird local dance troupe that matched camp, outlandish disco fashions and moves with cabaret comedy. “Comic gags and shiny glutes”, as a newspaper review called it.
Lissa had formed the group with girlfriends and fellow dancers Jennifer Stace and Yana Nirvana. They were increasingly popular at the clubs around Los Angeles, and Lissa was both proud and a little wistful watching their growing success. But dancers had to be fit and trim, and Lissa had recently developed hypoglycemia and put on weight. Adequate sleep and careful nutrition had been her priorities of late, and soon she would be starting anew, flying to San Francisco where she had been admitted to a performing arts school. All told, Los Angeles hadn't been doing it for her lately. She expected the change of scene in San Francisco and a return to meaningful pursuits would give her a much-needed boost.
On 5 November Lissa was finishing up her shift waitressing at the Healthfaire Restaurant on Vine, one of the many trendy vegetarian eateries that had sprung up around LA in recent years.
She planned on getting home quickly. In a couple of days she was catching her flight, and she still had to pack and clear out her apartment. Nothing was on her mind that night except the fact that she was dog tired, and she had a lot to do. She got into her green Beetle and drove off Vine onto Highland, turned right at Franklin, and continued on towards the Hollywood Freeway underpass.
Somewhere along Franklin she became vaguely aware that what looked like a cop car, white on the top and dark on the bottom, was travelling behind her. It was at some distance though, and these were well-worn roadways, so Lissa didn't think she was being tailed.
She turned into Argyle Avenue—and the car followed right behind her. At the junction of Dix Street, near her apartment block, she noticed the cop car flashing its beams. She pulled up and turned off the ignition.
As Lissa gathered up her handbag and some items from the car, two uniformed officers approached in the darkness. One of them fixed the glare of his flashlight on her through the driver side window, and with a slight wave of his index finger, motioned for her to roll it down.
—Police officers, ma'am. License please.
Lissa couldn't quite make out the man's face with the beam of his torch in her eyes. She squinted as she rummaged in her purse for her license, wondering what she had done to get pulled over. When she found it she gave it to the man, who now kindly averted his flashlight from her face and turned it on the license, inspecting it thoughtfully.
She now saw that he was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties. Short dark hair and a mustache. He had stereotypically handsome, if slightly sharp, features, marred only by a cluster of very visible acne scars around his neck and lower cheeks. Intensely blue eyes.
Lissa demanded to know what this was all about. She hadn't done anything wrong. She was a good driver. She was pretty sure she never ran a red light or anything like that.
But the man ignored her question entirely, as if she had never spoken at all. He just passed the license to the other one, the older man. He was rough looking, about as ugly as the other one was handsome, with a curly black shock of hair.
The older guy peered at Lissa's license under his flashlight. Then the two glanced at each other, as if exchanging some silent assent.
—Step out of the car please, said the younger one, quiet but firm.
Lissa objected. They had to tell her what the hell this was all about. This was a bunch of crap! She hadn't done anything wrong.
—We ask the questions, ma'am. But since you asked so politely, there's been some trouble over near Vine and Highland. A robbery. Your car was seen leaving the scene.
Lissa, aghast, struggled to explain: that was where she worked, she had just left her waitressing job over at the Healthfaire right now, she sure as hell didn't have anything to do with no robbery, and she was in a hurry to get home because she had a plane to catch.
The young cop pleasantly assured her that they would call her manager and straighten everything out. But in the meantime she was going to have to accompany them to the police station.
Lissa didn't see that she had much choice but to do what the cop asked. She could either stay put with them hanging outside her window all night, or get out. But something was telling her not to.
The young one told her to drop her bag on the ground, pushed her against the side of her car, and frisked her while the old cop started rifling through her bag. Now, perhaps a measure of her growing alarm, Lissa acquiescently told the men that she would happily accompany them to the station, but it wouldn't do them any good because she had nothing to tell.
—Be quiet, said the younger one. Stop making a scene. You'll wake up the neighborhood, and you're only making things worse for yourself.
His voice was low, but he was getting angry. Lissa noticed something weird about his eyes. The glittering blue of them, now, perhaps due to a deprivation of light internal or external, were black.
They bundled her into the back of their black and white “patrol car”, closed the door behind her, and nobody ever saw her alive again.
* * *
The next evening, the manager of the Healthfaire Restaurant headed in to work and opened for business as usual.
He was a little concerned when Lissa didn't arrive for the start of her shift. She was very conscientious, and would have called in if she were sick or was going to be late for some reason.
As the hours passed, with no sign of Lissa and no word from her, this mild unease grew into worry. He put a call through to Lissa's home number, which went unanswered, and then to Lissa's father, Bernard Kastin, who was listed as the emergency contact on her employment record.
Bernard thought the manager was right to be concerned. But he also questioned whether Lissa had skipped out on the job because she would be leaving LA soon anyway, even if that really was not like her. Maybe she was short on time with her preparations for San Francisco.
He decided to head over to Lissa's apartment. As he was driving to the complex, he heard a news report on the radio about the body of a young woman found in Glendale.
The woman was described as in her twenties, with long curly dark hair. A sick feeling came over Bernard. His gut told him that his daughter was dead, but his mind pushed it away. Everything would be fine, he told himself. It was just a coincidence. That girl they found, she just looked similar to his daughter, but his daughter would be alive and well when he got to the apartment.
There, the building manager buzzed Bernard in.
The bed was made. An open suitcase, partly packed for her flight to San Francisco, was on the floor. It looked like she had never been home the night before.
Now in a full-blown panic, Bernard Kastin called the Glendale Police Department and spoke with Dave O'Connor from the homicide division. He explained that he had heard a description of a body found in Glendale on the radio that sounded like his daughter, and that Lissa had gone missing. Bernard provided enough details about Lissa's physical appearance that the police thought it a reasonable likelihood that this was the girl they had found.
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