Hollywood Murder

by M. Z. Kelly

  “We’re going to need any and all information you have about your family,” Leo told the attorney. “It’s easier to get that at the station, away from the press, and…” He glanced at the residence. “…what’s going on here.” He looked back at Marsh. “Why don’t you ride back to the station with Detectives Hall and Peters? We’ll meet you there for an interview in a few minutes.”

  Marsh sighed. “Okay. I guess I understand. In the meantime, can you put a notice out, or whatever you call it, about my wife and kids? I’m afraid…” He broke down and didn’t go on.

  After Marsh left with Darby and Mel, Lieutenant Oz arrived. Our boss was in his early sixties, with a shock of snow-white hair. He had more than thirty years on the job, but still had a passion for the work. I considered him one of the good guys in a department that sometimes seemed deficient in that regard.

  Leo and I took a few minutes, filling the lieutenant in on what we knew. My partner finished the discussion by saying, “We’re taking Marsh back to the station for an interview. So far, he gives the impression of being shocked by everything, but we’ll see how it goes.”

  Oz nodded, his gaze drifting over to the throng of reporters. “This will be lead story stuff in the morning. I’ll call Dembowski and see if MRS can put out a statement.”

  MRS was the department’s Media Relations Section that handled most of the sensitive dealings with the press. It was a way for the department to be sure they controlled what was released to the media.

  “We ran into Shelia Woods on the way in,” I said. “She wants to meet about the Potter case tomorrow.”

  Oz took a breath. He looked tired. I remembered that the murder call had gotten him out of bed. “Let’s see how things go with what’s happened here.” He glanced at the residence. “This is our first priority.”

  Before leaving for the station, Leo and I met with Brie Henner for her preliminary findings. My beautiful friend looked exhausted as she summarized what she knew. “It’s pretty much as it appears. She was killed in the kitchen with the butcher knife. The blood spray is diffused throughout the room and there were defensive wounds on her arms, both indications that she fought back. We’ll do nail scrapings and look for any DNA, of course.”

  “TOD?” Leo asked.

  “Based on the liver temp, I’d estimate sometime between seven and ten tonight. We’ll know more when we get her on the table and look at stomach contents.” Brie continued, giving us more detail about how to determine the time of death based on a victim’s last meal and digestion than I cared to know.

  Leo wandered off after Brie finished her summary. I took the opportunity to take a walk with her in the Marsh’s backyard.

  “So, how are things really going with you?” I asked.

  She met my eyes and smiled. “You oughta be a detective.”

  I touched her arm. “I’ll keep that in mind. Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  Brie took a breath and shook her head. “I went back in for a check-up a couple of days ago. A strand of cancer was found post-surgery. It means…” Her eyes misted over and she took a moment. “I’m going to have some more tests run. It could mean the cancer has metastasized to my lymph nodes. I’ll know more later this week.”

  I squeezed her hand, doing my best to control my own emotions. I finally found the composure to ask, “What can I do to help?”

  She brought my hand up to her face, kissing it. “Just be the best friend anyone could ever have, like you’ve always been.”

  The floodgates opened. I fell into her arms and barely choked out the words, “You can count on me. Always.”

  SEVEN

  We spent the rest of the night at Hollywood Station interviewing Vincent Marsh. The attorney alternated between giving us information about his wife, their family and friends, and breaking down into fits of despondency. Darby Hall, who appeared to relish the role of interviewer-interrogator, spent a couple of hours going at him, spinning scenarios about their marriage being in trouble and asking Marsh if he’d been involved with someone else.

  Despite all the pressure, Marsh had remained steadfast, telling us he had no idea why Maria Chavez was murdered or where his family had gone. By the end of the session, I decided we needed a lot more facts before making any decisions about Vince Marsh and what happened to his family.

  I got home just before six in the morning and took a nap. I slept until eleven, when I was awakened by Natalie knocking on my door.

  “Me and Mo thought you might be here,” Natalie said as I stood in the doorway. “Whatcha doing, sleeping the day away?”

  I yawned, tried to focus, and mumbled. “Long night with a case.” I glanced at the clock on my microwave. It was a little before noon. “I’ve got to head back to the station in a few minutes.”

  “Why don’t you drop in for a sec? We got us some info on Kellen Malone.”

  Bernie was pushing his head between my leg and the door jamb, wagging his tail. “If you’ll take Bernie for a walk, it’s a deal.”

  After Natalie was gone, I took a shower, did what I could with my unruly locks, and dressed in a dark blazer and pants, your basic homicide cop outfit. I went next door, poured myself some coffee, and met up with my friends and Bernie in their living room.

  Mo, who was dressed in her standard leather PI gear, consisting of lots of leather and silver chains, asked me about my night. “We heard ’bout that housekeeper who was killed over in Hancock Park. Rumor on the streets is that she was missing something you can’t do without.”

  “As in her head,” Natalie said, the pitch in her voice rising. “Was the killer some kind of crazy psycho with an ax?”

  Mo always seemed to have the facts of my cases, almost before I did. I drained half my coffee and said, “We don’t have any suspects at this point. It’s still early in the investigation.”

  “I heard the husband is one of them big-shot attorneys in La-La Land,” Mo added. “Maybe he chopped up the wife and kids and dumped ’em somewhere, just like what he did to the maid, ’cause he was screwing his secretary.”

  I tried to be noncommittal. “Anything’s possible, but we don’t have any indication right now that’s the case.”

  Mo regarded me with one eye. She was wearing a curly yellow wig that brought Big Bird to mind. “I got a feeling this one’s gonna get complicated before it’s over.”

  “Mo and me are gonna ask Jimmy what he knows ’bout the lawyer,” Natalie said. “He’s had a lot of dealings with Satan’s brothers, so he might know the bloke.”

  Natalie knew that I hated lawyers, and, after a messy divorce from her elderly husband, she had little use for them herself. Her reference to Jimmy was their boss in the PI firm where they worked. Jimmy Sweets was lower than Death Valley on the Hollywood low-life sleaze scale.

  “I’d prefer that you keep Jimmy out of this,” I said. “He’s not my favorite guy.”

  “He might be scum,” Mo agreed, raising her brows. “But he’s got the dirt on a lot of players.”

  I sighed, knowing it was useless to argue with them. “Just keep it on the down low.” I changed the subject, looking at Natalie. “What did you find out about Kellen Malone?”

  “He’s a dirty lizard with more baggage than the lost and found department at LAX. He’s also a player.”

  I looked at Mo, who I could always count on to fill in the details. “Malone’s got a history of being involved with lots of women, going back to Jean Winslow,” she said. “Some of those women go away.”

  “Go away? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “They vanish,” Natalie said. “My guess is the dirty lumpfish carves ’em up like that Dexter bloke and dumps their bodies in the bloody ocean.”

  My brows came together as I looked at Mo. “Do you have any evidence of that?”

  She shook her curly yellow head. “Not yet, but we’re still in the early stages of our investigation.”

  I was irritated with both of them and didn’t try to hide it. “This is not an investi
gation. I told you that you could gather information. The last thing I need is for Malone to think we’re looking into his background.”

  Mo leaned forward, the lines on her forehead growing deeper. “Don’t you think we know how to be discreet?” I was about to say they didn’t know the meaning of the term when she went on. “I’m just working a couple of sources that are way below the radar. I know ‘bout the Revelation and the last thing I want is to stir up trouble with that bunch.”

  I released a breath and shook my head. “Okay, see that you keep this way off the radar.” I stood up and got Bernie’s leash. “I’ve got to go.”

  Natalie followed me to the door. “Try and make it home by seven tonight. Marlon the Magnificent is gonna be here.”

  “Who?”

  “You got the memory of a gnat,” Mo said, trailing behind Natalie. “Baby sis is talkin’ ’bout that celeb chef we been workin’ with.”

  “Marlon’s gonna whip up some nosh that’s fit for the Queen of England tonight, somethin’ that should go just right with me Dirty Harrietts.”

  It all came back to me. “I’ll try and make it, but no promises.”

  ***

  Bernie and I arrived back at Hollywood Station just after one that afternoon. As I settled in at my desk across from Leo, I asked, “Anything new?”

  My new partner was wearing a neatly pressed white shirt, and it occurred to me that he must have showered and changed before coming back to work. “Just that our case is the lead story on all the local news outlets. Somebody leaked the maid’s cause of death. Oz wants to meet with everybody in the bat cave in half an hour.”

  The bat cave reference was to the lieutenant’s large office that had been outfitted with TV monitors and computers. The department had spent a small fortune making Section One a modern crime fighting high-tech showcase. It was all nonsense as far as I was concerned. The real work in homicide was done on the streets, putting leads together, and tirelessly working cases.

  Leo told me that because of the sensational nature of Maria Chavez’s murder, the story was already being picked up by the national morning TV shows.

  “Damn it,” I said, thinking about the leak. “Why don’t we just invite the press…” I thought about the Potter case. “Never mind.”

  “Speaking of that, Oz said something about setting up that meeting with Shelia Woods tomorrow.”

  “I feel a major migraine coming on.”

  We went on, chatting about the murder and the disappearance of the Marsh family for a minute before I said, “Any thoughts on the husband after our interview?”

  “Marsh is either a very good liar or he’s innocent.”

  “You ever met a lawyer who wasn’t a good liar?”

  Leo’s eternal smile widened. “No one comes to mind.”

  After pushing some paperwork around for twenty minutes, we walked to Oz’s office where we found Darby Hall and Mel Peters already seated. After settling Bernie down, we were joined by Selfie and Molly Wingate, our secretary. Molly was a single mom, doing her best to raise two small children. She was hard-working and dedicated to her job, something that helped make Section One feel like home to me.

  After Oz joined us, he gave Bernie some attention before getting down to business. “Let’s summarize where we stand and map out a strategy. I guess you all know the victim’s cause of death is making headline news.” He nodded at Selfie and Molly to begin.

  Selfie used the overhead monitors to show video of the crime scene as she spoke. “Our homicide victim is Maria Chavez, age twenty-seven. She was found by her sister just after midnight last night in the kitchen of the Hancock Park residence owned by Vincent and Allison Marsh.” Several images of the horrific crime scene flickered on the overhead monitors. “We all know the COD. The victim’s head hasn’t been recovered. The coroner tentatively puts the TOD between seven and ten last night. The murder weapon was a large knife, taken from the kitchen during the assault. SID has already determined it was negative for prints. They’re waiting on DNA analysis.”

  “What do we know about the victim?” Leo asked.

  “She lived with her sister, Paula Ramirez. They rented a small apartment in Studio City. She was single and, according to the sister, hadn’t been in a relationship in recent months. When she wasn’t working for the Marsh family, she was attending school part-time to become a medical assistant.”

  Molly took over, filling us in on the missing family. Our secretary was wearing a green blouse that complemented her shoulder-length red hair. “Allison Marsh and her two children were last seen by her husband, Vincent, when he came home around six last night. The attorney had to work late. One of the partners in his law firm confirmed that he saw him arrive back at the building just before seven.” Molly picked up some paperwork. “One noteworthy fact we’ve uncovered is that Allison is the daughter of Henry Montreal. He’s an extremely wealthy investment broker who lives in Beverly Hills. According to some estimates, he’s a one percenter—as in a billionaire.”

  “Has anybody talked to him?” Oz asked, looking at his four detectives.

  I shook my head and started to answer when Mel said, “Just the press. I saw on the news, one of the reporters went by his house for a statement about his daughter. Montreal was heading to his car and said he had no comment.”

  “Let’s make it a priority to get with him today,” Oz said. “While it’s too early to say anything definitive, if this was a murder-kidnap, we need to get to him before there’s a ransom demand.”

  “I’ll call and set something up,” I said.

  “I also want a knock-and-talk on the Marshes’ neighborhood. Maybe someone saw somebody at the house.” Oz turned back to Molly. “Anything else?”

  Selfie answered. “We ran record checks on everyone. Vincent had a DUI about ten years ago. Nothing on Allison, the maid, or her sister.”

  “We’ve also compiled a list of the family and friends of both Chavez and the Marshes,” Molly said. “Nothing looks remarkable.”

  “There is one other thing,” Selfie said. “As SID was wrapping up at the house, a woman came by, saying she was a friend of Allison’s.” She checked her notes. “Deidre Cole. I have her contact information if you want to call her.” She handed me a slip of paper.

  Oz looked around the room. “So, where does this leave us?”

  “With a missing head,” Darby deadpanned.

  Leo ignored him, asking Molly and Selfie, “What do we know about the Marshes’ finances?”

  “There’s a lot of debt,” Molly confirmed, showing us a credit report. “The house is heavily mortgaged, and it looks like they’re balancing a lot of credit.”

  “Maybe the kidnappers don’t know that,” Mel suggested. “On the surface, the Marshes looked affluent. Vincent worked for a high profile law firm and his wife is the daughter of a wealthy investment broker. It could be that the maid’s murder was a message. Maybe the family is being held for ransom under the threat that the same thing will happen to them if either Vincent or his father-in-law doesn’t pay up.”

  EIGHT

  Henry Montreal made the drive from his Beverly Hills home to the financial district in downtown Los Angeles in just under an hour. The financier, who was in his late fifties, with a wisp of white hair and piercing blue eyes, cursed as he weaved his way through the busy streets. Traffic was terrible this time of day. He silently cursed the fact that he’d wasted the entire morning, consoling his wife and avoiding the media. Georgette had fallen apart after learning their daughter and her kids had gone missing. She’d even wanted him to stay home and spend the day with her. That would never happen.

  While he was worried about Allison and the bratty grandkids, he had other things on his mind. He had a major deal pending with a group of real estate investors, and that was his current priority. After the meeting was finished, he’d put his energy into dealing with what he’d privately deemed, “The Situation”.

  At first, it had crossed his mind that his son-in-l
aw might somehow be involved in what happened. When he heard the gruesome details of the crime, he quickly dismissed that possibility. Vincent Marsh was a spineless coward, with no stomach for violence or confrontation. Even the possibility that he’d hired someone to kill the maid and kidnap his family seemed out of the question. Henry knew from the many conversations he’d had with his friends at the law firm where Vince worked that his son-in-law was lazy, also bordering on incompetent. Henry knew that he’d only made partner because he’d pulled some strings behind the scenes for his daughter’s sake.

  As he pulled into the parking garage south of the Bunker Hill area where he worked and walked to the elevators, Henry put it all out of his mind. His priority was funding the development of Seaport, a multi-million dollar upscale condominium project in Newport Beach. If the negotiations went as he expected, the return on his investment would be close to twenty percent. That translated into fifty million dollars. Not a bad payday for a kid who grew up on the south side of Chicago, stealing money from anyone who was easy pickings to pay the extortion money demanded by the local street gangs.

  He remembered one bitterly cold Chicago night when he was ten years old and had come up a few bucks short. He had been beaten and left unconscious. That lesson had taught Henry Montreal that you did what was necessary to make your way in this world. You begged, you borrowed, and you stole, if that’s what it took, at the same time you pushed down the rage that simmered from being born into a life of poverty.

  The financier was through with all that. He now controlled the game and made sure that anyone who tried to cross him knew that. The roles had been reversed. He was the one in control of the streets, and the streets where he now held court were lined with money.

  The office where Montreal worked was on the top floor of the twelve story beaux-arts Brockman Building. The historic high rise had a private entrance, allowing him to enter and leave without having to waste his time with pleasantries and the distraction of the office staff. People could find a million ways to waste your valuable time, and his time was all about money. Waste not, want not.