Hollywood Intrigue: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “I’ve been doing some serious street snoop’n,” Mo said. “I talked to a lot of working girls about that Monroe scumbag they mentioned on the news today. Seems he was hanging out in Hollywood part of the time. Word had it that he only liked a certain kind of girl.”

  “As in Girl Scouts,” Natalie offered. “He liked ‘em young.”

  “He was also an abusive asshole,” Mo agreed. “Put a couple of girls in the hospital from what I heard.”

  I knew I shouldn’t be talking about my case, but I was still exhausted and my defenses were down. “From what we know about him, that would all seem to fit.”

  “There’s something else,” Mo went on. “According to my sources, Monroe had a partner he was working with, somebody with connections and a lot of money.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Some kind of freak,” Natalie said. “Somebody who liked to do crazy, whacko things to the girls.”

  I asked my question again, this time looking at Mo. She shook her big head, her blonde wig brushing against her shoulders. “I still got some feelers out, so if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Natalie then changed the subject. “Me and Mo are still working on following ‘round Mr. Cornflake.” She lowered her voice. “He’s a first class cheat-freak, hooking up with lots of girls, including your sister.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “We think that’s part of the reason Lindsay’s leaving town,” Mo said, also taking her voice down a notch. “To get away from him.”

  My lungs and my spirits deflated. “I had no idea. I hope Lindsay’s not running away from some kind of abusive relationship.” I regarded them both for a long moment but they kept quiet, something as rare as snow in Hollywood. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

  Mo looked at Natalie, and then back at me. Her big shoulders lifted and came down like they were carrying the weight of the world. “We didn’t want to say nuthin’, Kate. But we’re worried. We think Lindsay might be pregnant.”

  EIGHTEEN

  After spending another sleepless night, I finally drifted off around five in the morning but was awakened an hour later by a phone call. It was Lexi.

  “My grandparents’ car broke down. I was just wondering if…”

  I brushed the hair from my eyes and sat up in bed. “You need a ride?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  I checked the time and told her I’d be there in about forty minutes.

  As I showered and got ready for work, my thoughts drifted back to what Natalie and Mo had said about Lindsay possibly being pregnant. They’d told me that my sister was upset and crying recently, and admitted that she’d been involved with the man they’d been following while working for Jimmy Sweets. Mr. Cornflake, as Natalie had referred to him, was a guy named Marty Harris, a player, who had apparently hooked up with half the women in Hollywood.

  If Lindsay was, in fact, pregnant, I was both sad and angry that she hadn’t told me the truth. Mo had said that my sister was distraught and didn’t want to worry me with her problems. If that was true, it was the wrong decision. Lindsay and I had gone to therapy together, and I knew she needed emotional support because of what happened with her father. If she was pregnant, that support was going to be more important than ever. I made a decision to call her later in the day.

  Bernie and I found Lexi waiting on the sidewalk in front of the small home she shared with her grandparents. As I pulled to the curb, I saw that my youthful friend was wearing jeans and a blue sweater. Something about her seemed small and vulnerable.

  “How are you doing, hon?” I asked after she buckled up.

  Lexi sighed, at the same time turning and giving Bernie some attention. “Better now.” She turned back to me. “Grammie said it’s going to take a couple of days to get the car out of the shop. She said I’d have to take the bus to school but I don’t even know where it stops.” She seemed overwhelmed and unsure about what to do.

  “Why don’t we stop by the office at your school together and find out about the bus schedule. I’ll help you figure it out.”

  “Really?” She turned back to Bernie. “That would be so cool. Maybe when the other kids see you and Bernie, they’ll think I got into trouble.”

  I hadn’t thought about the fact that Bernie had a badge on his collar. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s okay. I don’t really care what they think.”

  When we got to her school, Bernie got lots of attention as we walked down the corridor to the office. Along the way we ran into Lexi’s English teacher, Mr. Walker.

  After introductions and me explaining why we were there, the thirty-something teacher said, “Lexi’s one of my best students—smart, too.”

  I looked over and saw that Lexi was blushing. “That’s wonderful,” I said. “She’s a pretty good basketball player, as well.”

  Lexi didn’t look at us, obviously embarrassed by the attention. I decided that it was probably just youthful insecurity. Then I had another thought. Her teacher was handsome and had a pleasant, friendly manner—maybe she had a crush on him.

  We chatted for a couple of minutes longer about the basketball team, Lexi still not saying anything, before we headed for the office. On the way, I turned to her and said, “Mr. Walker seems nice.” Lexi still didn’t respond. I lowered my voice. “You like him, don’t you?”

  Her cheeks flushed and she didn’t meet my eyes. “Sort of.”

  I touched her shoulder. “It’s okay. He is pretty cute.”

  She giggled. “I know.”

  We spent a few minutes in the office, Lexi checking the bus schedules, before I said goodbye and promised to call her tomorrow. Bernie and I were twenty minutes late for work and I stopped by Oz’s office to apologize. I saw that Ted, Selfie, and Molly were already meeting with him.

  After explaining about my morning and lack of sleep, Oz told me to have a seat and nuzzled Bernie. “No worries. I read somewhere that sleep is the new sex.” Everyone laughed before he added, “And at my age, they’re both about as rare as finding a pile of dinosaur shit on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  After some more laughs and chit-chat, we got down to business, Ted telling us about the Kern County autopsy results on William Monroe and Lori March. “No surprise, they both died of multiple insect stings. Our victim was also sexually assaulted, but, unlike Jenna Collins, there was no ring on her finger. The DNA results will take a few days.”

  “Anything in the way of prints or trace in the cabin?” Oz asked.

  “Just Monroe’s and the girl’s.”

  “I wonder how Monroe, and whoever else was involved, got a hold of that many wasps,” Selfie said.

  “I talked to Dr. Jernigan at UCLA yesterday,” I said. “He thinks somebody is a breeder, maybe someone in a rural area with the knowledge and skills necessary to produce hives with a large quantity of insects. He also said the wasps would need to breed in a warm climate or an incubator because they’re not normally active during winter months. They’d have to be kept in the incubator for warmth and then brought into the area.”

  Ted munched on a breakfast sandwich. “Seems like a lot of work for someone to go to.”

  “Crazy is more like it,” Selfie said.

  Oz continued to dote over Bernie. “Let’s check with anyone in the area who might be a breeder and see if anyone’s recently purchased incubators used for breeding.”

  “What about access to the cabin in Frazier Park?” Molly asked. “Did any of Monroe’s family members or friends have a key?”

  Ted shook his head. “Not according to his mother. The cabin was unlocked when we made entry.”

  I thought about what Natalie and Mo had said about the crimes last night and mentioned that. “My friend has a lot of street contacts and word has it that Monroe liked younger girls and was working with somebody who had money and connections.�
��

  Oz turned to Selfie and Molly. “Let’s do a full workup on William Monroe, including family members, past relationships, friends, and anybody he might have hooked up with while in prison.” The lieutenant then said to Ted and me, “I met with Captain Dembowski yesterday. I’m afraid the circumstances of our investigation are about to change.”

  I glanced at Ted, wondering if we were about to lose control of our case as the lieutenant went on. “The captain got a call from John Greer with the FBI yesterday. He’s assigning two agents to review the case with us.” He glanced at Selfie. “Our suspect’s signature has apparently been linked to a past crime.”

  “I don’t understand how I missed something,” Selfie said.

  Oz shook his head. “You didn’t. Apparently the previous crime occurred when VICAP was down and somehow didn’t get entered. The case involved the murder of a woman found in a mineshaft in Florida. Don’t know all the details, except that bugs were involved, just like in our case.”

  The lieutenant turned back to Ted and me. “I want you two to update the agents, work with them on what we’ve got, but let’s try to maintain as much control as we can. We know what it’s like when the feds get involved.”

  I was thinking about the last case I’d worked with the FBI when Oz said something that further deflated my spirits. “The captain also wants more bodies on this.” He sighed as he straightened his bowtie. “Horton and Braden just caught a new case, so I’ve got no choice but to assign Belmont and Hardy.” There were groans and eye-rolls all around. The lieutenant went on, “I’ll have a talk with them, see if I can get them to play nice.”

  I couldn’t help myself and said, “It’s not in their playbook.”

  Oz pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then we’ll issue a new playbook.”

  The meeting adjourned and we were headed for the door when the lieutenant said to me, “By the way, I think you know one of the FBI guys. His name is Joe Dawson.”

  NINETEEN

  Ted and I met with Joe Dawson and his new partner, Lavern Wallace, at FBI headquarters in downtown Los Angeles that afternoon. Dawson and I had worked a case together several months ago. At the time, he’d been involuntarily retired from the FBI for verbally insulting an assistant director, known as an ay-dick in fed-parlance. John Greer had coaxed him back into active duty to work with me on one of the department’s most horrific cases.

  On the surface, Dawson was your typical feebie; forty-something, six feet and solid, with pale blue eyes and graying sandy hair. Below the surface, he was a hard-headed, egotistical blow-hard, who I’d somehow managed to find common ground with after we almost came to blows several times. The truth was, I’d grown to like Joe Dawson, despite his many faults which included a mouth that didn’t know when to shut up.

  Lavern Wallace was his opposite. He was probably in his mid-thirties and had all the prerequisite FBI qualities, including the high and tight haircut, dark suit, and a personality that bordered on a social cyborg. The only thing that didn’t fit the agent was his name, something that wasn’t lost on Dawson.

  “I was thinking about having my name legally changed to Shirley,” Dawson said after introductions and we took a seat in a small office. He looked at his partner and smiled. “I changed my mind when Lavern said that he wanted top billing.”

  Dawson’s big partner folded his arms across his barrel chest, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. His only response was a vague huffing sound. I had the impression that he was doing a slow burn on the inside, something that was common when you were around Joe Dawson.

  During the weeks that we’d worked together, I’d learned that Dawson’s opinion of women was somewhere lower than where the Titanic rested. It was something that he demonstrated when he asked me, “So, how have you been, Buttercup?”

  I looked at Ted. “Just so you know, the big lug sitting across from us is incorrigible. He also makes up the rules as he goes along.”

  “Somebody’s got to grease the wheels of justice,” Dawson said. He looked at Ted. “She ain’t bad to look at, but she can be high maintenance.”

  Ted glanced at me, but didn’t respond.

  I defended myself. “He thinks a dog is high maintenance.”

  Dawson glanced down at Bernie who was resting in a corner. “Speaking of dogs, how is Humperdinck?”

  “Horny as ever,” I said, shaking my head. “Let’s cut the crap and talk about our case.”

  Ted and I took the better part of the next hour, going over every detail of our investigation, ending with William Monroe and Lori March being trapped by an unknown assailant in the cabin in Frazier Park. I then added, “I have a friend who thinks Monroe was working with somebody who had both money and connections, somebody who turned on him.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” Lavern Wallace said, finally proving that he could engage in conversation.

  “Tell us what you’ve got,” Ted said.

  Dawson took over again, telling us about a murder that occurred four years ago. “A fifteen-year-old girl named, Emily Loren, went missing in Clearwater, Florida. The area outside the city where she disappeared is heavily wooded with sinkholes and limestone caverns. A hiker found her body in a cave two days later. Basically, the same M.O. as in your case; she was sexually assaulted, posed, had a wedding band on her finger, and a giant wasp in her mouth.”

  “You said that she was posed,” Ted said. “Tell us about that.”

  Maybe thinking that he needed to be of some help, Wallace opened a briefcase and pushed some photos of the crime scene across the table.

  Dawson went on, “As you can see, there was a raised platform and the body was placed on a white sheet, just like in your case. The girl and the surrounding area was sprayed to kill any bugs and preserve the scene.”

  I examined the horrifying photos and then pushed them back across the desk. “It all fits.”

  “Any suspects?” Ted asked.

  Dawson’s big head went up and down. “A neighbor got a partial plate on a truck outside the victim’s house when she was taken. It was matched to a thirty-year-old grocery clerk named Oliver Gorm. When the locals raided his house, they found Gorm’s body swarmed with spider-wasps.” The big FBI agent’s lips turned up. “From what I heard, they’re still calling the sergeant who led the assault Sting.”

  “There was a similar murder a year earlier in Macon, Georgia,” Lavern Wallace said. “The locals botched that investigation. We don’t know all the details, except that the victim was also found in a cave and posed. There was an insect, maybe a wasp, in her mouth that got away during the examination of the body. We think a proxy killer was used in that case, as well, but no arrests were ever made.”

  “I’m not convinced that the Georgia case is a fit with ours,” Dawson said to Ted and me. “But the proxies that we know about appear to be chosen from the pool of local scumbags. Gorm had priors for sexual assault, just like Monroe.”

  I dragged a hand through my damp hair, mentally sorting through the facts. “So, four years after the Florida killing, an almost identical crime occurs on the other side of the country, using a proxy who was killed in the same manner as Gorm.”

  “And we’ve got no suspects,” Ted said.

  Dawson shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. We’ve got a suspect, we just don’t know where the hell he is.”

  I glanced at Ted, then back at Dawson, my eyes narrowing on him. “Who are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the guy who’s behind all these killings. He calls himself The Prophet.”

  TWENTY

  Lavern Wallace reached into his briefcase again, this time pushing a copy of a handwritten poem across the desk to us.

  As I skimmed the words, Dawson said. “The poem was left by The Prophet in the Florida killing.”

  I read the two hand-written lines Wallace had given us aloud for Ted’s benefit.

  “What do we have, the girl asked The Prophet,

  “Is life of v
alue or merely for profit?”

  A chill ran down my spine as I pushed the note over for Ted to take a look. I said to Dawson, “Any idea what it means?”

  The big FBI agent shrugged. “I don’t know much about poetry but the profilers have some theories. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it in a day or two, when the taskforce assembles.”

  “Taskforce.” I hissed out the word like a radiator belching steam. I hated taskforces. My past experience with a taskforce involved a group of overinflated egos spending hours speculating and planning, but, in the end, achieving nothing.

  “What about a poem?” Lavern Wallace asked us. “Did you guys get anything left that was associated with either the Collins or March kidnappings?”

  I shook my head. “No. Where did you…”

  Dawson answered my question before it was finished. “It was sent to the pastor of the church that our Florida victim attended.” Dawson’s pale blue eyes bounced between Ted and me. “What about your victims?”

  While we weren’t aware of a poem being left in the Lori March kidnapping, a dozen images of Joshua Graham flittered through my mind. Maybe he’d received a poem from The Prophet when Jenna Collins had been taken and for some reason had kept it from us. Then it occurred to me that Graham, himself, could be The Prophet.

  I stood up and said, “Let’s move. Jenna Collins not only attended church, but the pastor of her congregation was living with her mother.”

  ***

  As Ted and I drove to Seal Beach with Dawson and Wallace, I asked them about our killer. “Is he called The Prophet because of the poetry?”

  “The poem was leaked to a local reporter in Clearwater,” Dawson said as he drove. “He ran a story, began calling our perp The Prophet, and sensationalized everything. The name stuck and stirred everybody up. He even got some locals talking about forming vigilante groups in case the guy struck again, before it all eventually died down.”