Hillside Stranglers by Darcy O'Brien Page A

delighting in the absolute power of it. At Kenny’s request, the cousins traded places, with Bianchi doing the final killing while Buono, sitting on her knees and showing real passion for the first time that night, shouted, “Die, cunt! Die!”
    Her belongings safely in the dumpster, her body in the trunk, Angelo headed the Cadillac north toward the hills. About two miles from his house he pointed out an apartment building on Chevy Chase where he had once lived. He knew the area well, he said.
    “Nobody knows the city like the Buzzard,” Kenny said.
    After a very few minutes they were in the hills, but not high up this time. It was the beginning of a canyon dotted with expensive, rather new houses and then, on the left, the golf course of the Chevy Chase Country Club. At a bend in the road there were no houses on the right, and the golf course, fenced and bordered by big eucalyptus trees, was on the left. Angelo drove ahead until he could make a U-turn, came back down to the relatively secluded spot beside the golf course, stopped the car, and cut the headlights but left the motor running. Bianchi reached into the glove compartment and pushed the trunk button.
    “Make it quick,” Angelo said. “Nobody’s coming.”
    The wind blew hard. With all the trees, it was very dark. Between the golf-course fence and the road lay a deep drainage ditch, then a steep embankment, then a metal guard rail about three feet high. They swung the body over the guard rail, trying to heave it into the ditch. But she landed heavily and rolled with a rustling of leaves down the embankment about fifteen feet and came to rest against an invisible guy wire. Up the road, Angelo spotted headlights.

    “Let’s go,” he said. “You drive.”
    As Angelo nipped around the back of the Cadillac, he grabbed from the trunk a remnant of Lissa Kastin’s coat, which he had used to keep the body from bleeding onto the car, and slammed the lid. The other car passed them as they drove off.
    “You think that guy noticed anything?” Angelo asked.
    “Nah. What’re you going to do with the coat?”
    “Pull over at the next corner.”
    Angelo stuffed the bloody remnant down a curbside storm drain.
    “It was a bust, you know that?” Angelo said as they approached Colorado Street. “It wasn’t worth it. She was a dog. If I’d’ve knowed it would turn out like this, I’d’ve watched TV.”
    Kenny had to agree, although he said that the slow strangulation had been good. It offered all kinds of possibilities.
    Disappointment burdened them during the next couple of days. On the phone, they agreed that the foul-up could be traced to the process of selection. They had been overeager, picking out Lissa Kastin because she was easy prey. They had ignored aesthetics. There ought to be some way of signaling approval to each other before a girl was finally chosen. Following her onto a poorly lit street had been an error, since neither of them had gotten a good look at her. With all the girls in L.A., why should they settle for anything but the tops? It had been like casting an unknown actress without a screen test.
    “We couldn’t really tell how bad she was until we got her clothes off,” Bianchi said.
    “Bullshit,” Angelo said. “You can tell, you can tell. We moved too fast, that’s all. What’s the rush? We could take all night finding the right one. We could take all week.”
    “Yeah. We could really look one over. We could find something totally choice.”
    “You got it. There are thousands, mi numi, thousands.”
    It was a mere four nights later that they decided to go for it again. There had been no public notice as yet of Lissa Kastin’s death, the city knew nothing of the act, and to Buono and Bianchiit had become an irritating nonevent, a draw in a bout that cried out for a rematch. On Wednesday evening, November 9, Bianchi dropped in to see Angelo. They were going to discuss strategy, merely. Bianchi found Angelo out back stroking his