Hollywood Assassin: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  My jaw dropped and I blurted out, “What have you done to my dog?” My tough-as-nails, sexually assertive canine partner was wearing a giant pink bow.

  “We’re doing a take-off on that old TV show—calling it, Queer Eye for the Canine Guy,” Tyler explained with a smile.

  “A vast improvement over that brown collar with the badge attached to it,” Barry added, waving his hand in the air.

  I tethered Bernie and promptly removed the bow. “It’ll take more than a wardrobe malfunction to turn Mr. Love-on-a-leash around.”

  As I gathered my purse, Robin said, “The Divas are performing at Club SUK Thursday night. We’ll leave a ticket at the door for you.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” I kissed him on the cheek just before Bernie yanked me out the door. Maybe he was worried about getting a blow dry and pedicure.

  I was out on the sidewalk heading for my car when I looked up and saw the mess. Olive’s rear passenger side window was broken; shattered glass everywhere. Upon closer examination, I was convinced that nothing was taken, but everything had been tossed.

  I turned to Bernie who was whining softly and said, “My car? Really?”

  I knew it would be a waste of time to call it in, so I cleaned up the mess and then secured my partner in the backseat. I was thinking maybe the break-in was an attempt at identity theft. It’s a big problem everywhere.

  But as I pulled away from the curb something else occurred to me. Could what happened have some connection to Jack Bautista?

  Chapter Five

  “Charlie, cuff his other wrist!” I yelled.

  I was spinning around Mayagi’s Restaurant like something out of a carnival nightmare, riding on the back of a wanted felon named Harold Wiener. Yes, that’s Harold, as in Harry. And that’s Wiener, as in… You get the picture.

  All the local cops know Harry Wiener. He’s a tweaker. They usually address the meth-head formally, referring to him as, Mr. Wiener. Probably a futile attempt to offer a shred of dignity where there wasn’t any.

  Bernie had his teeth clamped onto Mr. Wiener’s red plaid shirt. Charlie had managed to cuff only one of the felon’s wrists before we started doing the piggy-back waltz.

  “He’s spinning like a damn top,” Charlie said. “Can’t get the other arm.”

  I yelled at our suspect, “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

  Maybe the name Harry Wiener predestines you to a life of crime. Why not Harvey? Harvey Wiener you might be able to live with, but Harry? How could you survive with a name like that? What were his parents thinking?

  Charlie dove for the cuffs and came up short again. “He’s too fast, Kate.” My partner was out of shape, trying to catch his breath. Frustration surfaced. “Maybe I should just shoot him.”

  “Fass! Fass!” I yelled at Bernie, the German command for attack. Maybe I should have learned the foreign command for, “Bite the Wiener.” My dog couldn’t get a grip on anything other than Mr. Wiener’s baggy shirt. Why was it so hard to bite a Wiener?

  The wanted felon bounced across the nearly empty restaurant that had just opened for the day. Tables were tossed, as the woman, dog, and Wiener pirouette continued.

  Charlie finally gave up on the handcuff dive and took a more direct approach. His head lowered and my partner ran full force into the spinning felon. A bull run.

  “UUGGGGGHHHH!” Mr. Wiener bellowed like he’d been mortally wounded.

  The head butt was a direct hit on Mr. Wiener’s most sensitive anatomical feature. My partner later gave the tactical maneuver a name: giving head to a Wiener.

  Our suspect began to gyrate, the three of us doing a sushi samba across the restaurant known for the world’s largest sushi bar. The samba ended with a thud as we did a fish flop into the buffet. The slime-fest arrest ended as Charlie slapped the cuffs on Mr. Wiener’s other wrist.

  I called Bernie off and came out of the fish pile, spitting rice and breathing fire. “You ripped my best pair of London Jeans, you A-hole!”

  Charlie lifted Mr. Wiener to his feet. The prisoner looked at me and spat, “You were on my back, bitch.” He did a pelvic thrust, his fishy trousers riding low on his waist. “Next time you want a little Wiener action, just ask. We can get a room.”

  “Like anyone would ever be that desperate.”

  Charlie was at my side, one hand on Mr. Wiener and the other holding me back. Mr. Wiener responded by making an obscene gesture with his tongue.

  “Save it for the next sushi buffet,” I said, fuming.

  “Come on,” Charlie said, gasping for air and steering the suspect toward his car.

  I was still fumbling with the ripped seam in my jeans as the car door shut on the felon.

  “I cashed in my uniform allowance for these jeans,” I said to Charlie, motioning to the mushy mess covering me. “I’ll have to toss them out.”

  Charlie was still in recovery mode, grabbing knees and gulping air. He had no sympathy, but offered a new perspective: “More in style… My kid’s got a pair…ripped up like that. Cost me a hundred bucks.”

  “These cost me more than that.” I glanced down and noticed a stain on my blue poplin blouse. “Dammit! Why don’t I just give it up and wear a pair of mechanics overalls?”

  Bernie and I followed Charlie in Olive as he drove our suspect to the station. The afternoon was cooler than the day before, but the air was humid. Not the best conditions for wearing sushi bar cologne.

  Olive was doing her usual sputter and lurch as I parked next to Charlie. He already had the prisoner out of the car.

  Harold Wiener laughed as my car belched out a final protest and rattled to a stop. “Nice set of wheels.” I realized it was possible for a Wiener to have a shit-eating grin.

  As we walked into the station, our arrestee’s demeanor abruptly changed. Laughter dissolved into tears and the wanted felon began sobbing hysterically. Charlie looked at me, his brow knitting. “What the hell?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it’s some kind of weird Wiener depression.”

  The blubbering continued. Harold Wiener was bawling like a wet baby as we walked him into the station. The usual noise and banter in the squad room fell silent. All eyes turned toward us as we moved through the detective bureau, a fish-soaked, ripped-up, tail-wagging, Wiener-sobbing quartet of misery.

  The chuckles began. Polite, at first. Then the laughter fed on itself like a shark at a sushi bar. Dispatch must have tipped everyone off about the morning’s events.

  Pete Hailey, a ruddy, fast-talking detective who didn’t know when to shut up, motioned to our wailing prisoner. “Something’s fishy here. I heard you guys spent the afternoon riding the baloney pony.”

  Charlie pushed past the detective as Carl Winters chimed in, “Looks to me like a banana followed by a couple of nuts.” The detective laughed at his own joke. Our prisoner wailed louder.

  “Clever,” I said over the laughter and blubbering. “I hear Jimmy Kimmel needs a writer.”

  Jessica Barlow joined the fray. She cocked her head and smiled in a too perky way that made me want to bludgeon her. “Hey everybody, make way for the station’s new unit. It’s called the pecker patrol.”

  I swung an imaginary axe. Jessica screeched. Her eyes bugged out and her tongue fell out of her mouth. The detective’s perfectly coiffed head rolled across the station floor.

  I hate Jessica Barlow. I went to high school with the serpent. She decided to slither into my life after graduation and become a cop. My nemesis goes out of her way to try proving herself better and smarter than me. Jessica also has another problem—she sheds her skin every couple of weeks. Versace has a clothing line for serpents.

  I cut my eyes to the still sobbing Harold Wiener. “Quiet.”

  Shock. Our prisoner stopped crying. The station fell silent.

  I turned and locked eyes with the serpent. “Jessica, why don’t you cut us some slack? Take a moment, reflect on your life, and go slash your wrists in the break room?”

  The serpent t
urned, gave the room a death stare, and slithered away.

  The laughter returned as the officers watched a Wiener, a dog, and two fish- soaked cops saunter toward the booking area. I sighed. Why hadn’t I chosen a respectable career, like working for the sewer department?

  Charlie and I pushed our blithering suspect into a holding cell.

  “I wanna make a deal,” Mr. Wiener squealed through his tears.

  I was at the end of my rope. “I’ll make you a deal. Rot in jail.”

  The felon dipped his head, wiping snot on his shirt, and tried to control his sobbing. “They pick on me in jail and the food is rotten.”

  Charlie couldn’t take any more, either. “Gee, maybe that’s why they call it a jail.”

  “I heard they’ve got a Harry Wiener wing,” I added. “Comes with its own barber—a guy named Bubba the Love Machine.”

  More Wiener tears. His voice lowered. “The last time I got arrested I was molested.” I ushered our prisoner into the holding cell as he made a final plea. “I’m willing to give up a drug dealer—a big operator if you cut me a break. Pleassssseeee. At least have them put me in PC.”

  Mr. Wiener had been in jail enough times to know that protective custody would keep him out of the general population of inmates, possibly garner him some additional favors.

  I tossed the key to the booking officer. “Put him in PC,” I said. “The Preferred Cock section.”

  Never mess with a girl in a ruined outfit.

  I showered and put on the t-shirt and pair of sweats I usually wear to the shooting range. I found Charlie and Bernie back in the squad room. My partner had worked up an appetite during the morning arrest and was scarfing down a slice of leftover pizza.

  “Want some?” Charlie popped open a low calorie drink and offered up the remaining pizza slice.

  I grimaced. “Pepperoni chased by a strawberry Slim Quick?”

  “Evens out the calories.” He rubbed his stomach. “Lost two pounds in the past week.”

  I declined the offer of food and went to work on the Harold Wiener booking paperwork. Charlie ate and studied the sports section of the Times.

  “Talked to Dorothy Velasquez a few minutes ago,” Charlie said, without looking up. “Drake is still pretty worked up.”

  “So am I.”

  “She thinks Drake is out for revenge. He hates Bautista.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  He went on with his mouth full, “Drake was getting some award from the Community Advisory Board a few years back and Jack showed up drunk. The captain was being honored for arresting a rapist on the west side.” My partner swigged his Slim Quick. “As Drake was accepting the award, Jack stood up and said Barry Peterson was the guy they should be honoring. He’s the one who broke the case and Drake took the credit.”

  “No surprise.” I looked up from my report. “I’m going to check into the Cassie Reynolds case. See what I can turn up in my spare time.”

  Charlie put down his paper; gave me the daddy death stare. I was still angry about him talking to Bautista. I cut his protest off before it started. “Save it. I know you talked to Jack.”

  “He called you?”

  “Do me a favor. Let me make my own decisions.”

  Charlie’s gaze slid back to the Times. “Just don’t want to see you in any more trouble.” I tried not to show my annoyance as he went on. “Sources tell me Cassie Reynolds never met her father. Disappeared before she was born.”

  “Sources, huh?”

  Charlie chugged the last of the diet drink and then massaged his jaw. “Also heard that the records on the case are missing.”

  I glanced up from the booking paperwork, my brows lifting. “That’s interesting.”

  “Not really. Thirty-year-old case. Records get misplaced. Hollywood Division wasn’t even here back then.”

  There was another possibility he didn’t mention. The records could have been purposely destroyed—a cover-up.

  My partner’s cell phone rang. His voice softened as he answered it. “I want you to do your homework, honey.” He paused, shook his head. “Okay, I’m not gonna argue, but be home by nine. I should be on time tonight. I’ll make dinner and keep it warm for you.”

  Charlie ended the call and looked over at me. “Kid’s sixteen going on twenty-five.” He tossed his cell phone on his desk. “I even bought us both these fancy new idiot phones, thinking it would help with our communication.”

  Charlie showed me the latest version of the iPhone, his peace offering to an out of control teenager. I felt sorry for him being a single parent and trying to raise a daughter without any help.

  “It’s a difficult age,” I said. “Irma’s a nice enough kid.”

  “Wants a tattoo.”

  I dragged a hand through my damp hair. So much for Robin’s work.

  Charlie continued, “I Win.”

  “What?”

  “Irma Winkler—I Win. That’s the tattoo she wants.” Charlie went on about his daughter. Whatever their problems, at least Irma had a father who was there for her, unlike Cassie Reynolds. Her dad had been missing, maybe murdered, for almost thirty years.

  My own father had been killed when I was only four years old. I often thought about our relationship; what it would have been like if he’d lived. I was too young when he died to really remember him, but I had the impression that my father was the only stabilizing influence in our family, balancing out my mother’s eccentricities. I also harbored illusions, maybe like Cassie, that I’d someday find out who murdered him and bring the killer to justice.

  After Charlie finished his Irma rant, I changed the subject. “I wonder if there are any old timers from the force that were around when Cassie Reynolds’s father went missing?”

  From somewhere behind me I heard laughter. Charlie scratched his head and said, “Before my time.”

  The laughter grew louder. There was movement toward the windows overlooking the parking lot.

  “There is a guy…” Charlie said as we began moving toward the crowd of cops gathering at the windows, “first black cop to work Hollywood. I went to his retirement party a few years back. Took me a week to recover.”

  Someone at the window said,” He’s not gonna be able to keep ‘em up.”

  “Guy’s name is Pearl Kramer.” Charlie’s words drifted away as we reached the window.

  I now saw what the commotion was all about. “Oh, my God.”

  The transportation officers were trying to keep Harold Wiener’s pants from slipping down below his waist as he was escorted to the jail transport wagon. They were unsuccessful. To make matters worse, when he’d chosen his ensemble for the day, Mr. Wiener had decided to go commando.

  Charlie summed up the scene for all of us, “I guess Harry Wiener came by his name honestly.”

  Chapter Six

  A black Mercedes came within inches of Olive’s bumper, engine roaring. I hit the brakes and downshifted into a four wheel skid. We hit a berm, saving us from flying off into a canyon. A one-finger L.A. salute followed and the car was gone, racing around a curve.

  Natalie returned the gesture from the passenger seat, yelling, “You’re as mad as a bag of ferrets, you moron!” She turned to me. “He nearly killed us.”

  I exhaled and released the white knuckle grip. “How come there’s never a cop around when you need one?”

  Bernie had been tossed into the back of Natalie’s seat. He seemed none the worse for the experience.

  We were on a narrow, winding lane in the Hollywood Hills. Great views if you lived. I had the morning off and we were on our way to see Pearl Kramer. I’d gotten the former detective’s address from the city’s retirement division.

  After recovering from our near accident, we moved on. Bernie sniffed the morning air, his muzzle sticking through Olive’s new rear window that, of course, wasn’t covered by my insurance policy.

  We found Pearl Kramer’s residence, a French country estate that crested on a hill. The compound was surr
ounded by stone walls and sculptured gardens scattered over several acres of land.

  “Copper work must earn a pretty penny,” Natalie said, as I pressed the gate intercom.

  “Yeah, just look at what I’m driving.”

  After announcing ourselves, a baritone voice said, “Please stay to the right, off the main drive. Mr. Kramer’s residence is about a quarter mile up the lane.”

  We followed the directions, stopping in front of a small stone cottage. The bungalow had probably been built for the caretaker of the estate. The little house had a view of the sprawling mansion in the distance.

  We were knocking on the front door when an elderly woman with white hair and a flowing silver gown tapped on my shoulder. I turned at the same time Natalie saw the face floating up to us like a ghost.

  “Flaming mother of God,” Natalie screamed, clutching my arm. Bernie, apparently also surprised, growled.

  “Everyone’s dead,” the woman said.

  “Who’s dead?” I asked.

  “Gable, Lombard, Hepburn.” The woman’s head lowered. She wept. “Jean Claude murdered them all.”

  “Excuse me.” The calling voice belonged to a man walking from the backyard of the cottage. Late sixties. Tall. Black skin against a full head of silver hair. Eyes like soft leather. He turned to the strange woman. “It’s all right, Olivia. They’re just here to visit.” He motioned to someone coming up the driveway in a golf cart. “Margaret will see that you get back to the house safely.”

  The woman’s head bobbed about her neck and shoulders. “But what about Peter? We’ve got to help him.”

  The man put his arm around her. “Peter is in God’s hands, Olivia. He’s safe and protected there.”

  After the woman was gone, Pearl Kramer introduced himself. He walked us around the cottage to a patio shaded by an ancient oak tree and explained.

  “Olivia Wesley Swanson owns these grounds. Her late husband, Peter, was murdered by his brother here in the eighties. Dispute over the family fortune. Maybe you heard about the case.”

  “Sorry, before I was born,” I said.

  “Wasn’t even a twinkle in the tinkle,” Natalie added.