You call me the Helter Skelter killer. That name comes from the pages I’ve been leaving, but let me assure you there is nothing “helter skelter” about my methods, as you may have determined. I chose that book not for the title, but for a deeper, more personal reason. My father, Charles Manson, had a vision. My goal was to take that vision to a new level, which I believe I have accomplished. I am now willing to end the killings, in return for a small favor.

It ended there. Evelyn checked copies posted on a few other sites, but they were all the same—stopping before he made his demand.

“He’s playing with us,” I said. “With everyone. Claiming to be related to Manson. Nattering on about taking his vision to a new level. Making unspecified demands. He said just enough to stir up speculation and panic.”

“What’d you find?” Jack asked.

“Huh?”

“Today. Earlier.” He flicked off the television. “Forget this. He wants people to panic? Fine. Doesn’t work on us.”

Right. I took a deep breath, and told him what Evelyn and I had uncovered. Then I asked about his trip. It turned out that Carson Morrow’s “cartel client” was a nephew who’d gone straight, and been out of the business for years. So that lead was dead. When Jack asked whether Evelyn had heard anything on Baron, she checked her messages and found a few tips to check out.

“You do that. I’m gonna take Dee out.” He looked at me. “Dinner?”

“Um, sure,” I said.

“It’s too early for Martini’s,” Evelyn said. “You know I hate eating there before eight—”

“Didn’t invite you. Giving Dee a break.”

He waved me to the back door as she sputtered an obscenity-laden answer.

Jaxson

Jaxson

“Jackson,” he told the hostess. “With an x.”

Even now, ten years after his agent gave him the moniker, he felt silly saying it. Invariably, the other person frowned, not understanding. It wasn’t like saying “Brandy with an i.” Who the hell put an x in Jackson?

“J-A-X-S-O-N,” he said when the hostess’s brow knitted.

“And your first name, Mr. Jaxson?” she said as she wrote it down beside the reservation list. Before he could answer, her baby blues went double-wide. “Oh, my God. That Jaxson. I’m so sorry. I should have recognized—”

“That’s okay. Some days, I’m happy being anonymous. After No Holds Barred, I didn’t want to be recognized for months.”

Ba-dum-dum. A line he’d used a thousand times, and not worth a snicker, much less the guffaw the hostess gave it. That’s the hell of being famous. Everything that leaves your mouth is profoundly witty, profoundly charming, profoundly profound.

“Will your guest be joining you later?” the hostess asked as she led him through the darkened restaurant.