Hollywood Intrigue: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  Bernie and I got up a little before seven and took a stroll around the Barkley Bungalows. We were headed back to our apartment when Natalie poked her gorgeous head out of her front door. When I saw her, I decided it was a mortal sin to be that good looking so early in the morning.

  “Why not come in for a cuppa and a little chinwag? Me and Mo got us some news.”

  I knew that a cuppa meant tea and chinwag was probably a reference to more street gossip. I was almost afraid to ask her what she meant by news, wondering if they might be meddling in my case. I finally relented, deciding that sooner or later I’d find out what they were up to anyway. “Let me take a shower and then I’ll come over.”

  Forty minutes later I was dressed for work and sharing a cup of tea with my friends. Mo, never one to mince words, saw that my head bashing performance of a couple of nights ago was still affecting my hair. “Looks like you got on a fright wig.”

  Natalie concurred. “Maybe Kate’s vibrator short-circuited and her hair had an orgasm.”

  I sighed, picked at my hopeless, frizzy locks. “I’m afraid it’s the only kind of orgasm I’ve had lately.”

  Natalie went on, “You’ve been on the breakup with that cowboy for a few weeks now. Maybe it’s time to straddle the saddle again.”

  “Or maybe it’s time to re-gift what you got,” Mo suggested. I had no idea what she was talking about, something that she apparently realized. “Put a bow on the kitty kat and let somebody open the box again, make it purr.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not going to happen anytime soon. I’m not ready for another relationship.”

  “We aint talking ‘bout a relationship,” Natalie said. “We’re talking ‘bout collecting a little interest on your moneymaker.”

  “I think I’ll keep my money in the bank for the time being,” I said, and then changed the subject, telling Natalie, “You mentioned earlier that you’ve got some news.”

  “That segment of Hollywood Girlz that we filmed a couple of nights ago is gonna air on cable TV this weekend,” she said, clapping her hands. “I got a feeling that Mo and me are gonna get discovered.”

  Mo nodded her head, her red wig-de jour shifting slightly. “You might even see us on the Emmy’s one of these days.”

  I sipped my tea, set the cup down. “I hope the show’s a big success.”

  “Or maybe we’ll even be on one of them criminal profiler shows,” Mo said. “Considering we got us some information on The Prophet.”

  My interest was piqued. “What do you have?”

  “According to what I heard on the street over the last couple of days, he uses wasps in some kinda crazy ass ritual when he kills the girls.”

  “I think maybe it’s voodoo,” Natalie said. “Your killer is into the black arts.”

  Word had obviously gotten out about the insects, and what Mo said might have some validity, but we had no indication that our crimes involved voodoo.

  I finished my tea and stood up. “I’ll keep what you heard in mind. I’m going to go do a little more work on the Frankenstein’s bride wig I’m wearing before heading off to work.”

  Mo also got to her feet. “Looks like you’re gonna have your work cut out for you at the station today.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  She motioned to her kitchen counter. I went over and saw there was a newspaper lying there. “The press somehow got ahold of that crazy-ass poem The Prophet sent. It made the front page of the Herald-Press and is also on television. Everybody in the city is going nuts.”

  ***

  Bernie and I were hurrying into the station, running late, when we ran into my former partner, Harvey Gluck, and Jessica Barlow. Jessica levelled her heavily made-up eyes on me and said, “It looks like you’ve already screwed the pooch in Section One. Your case is all over the papers and people are in a panic.”

  I ignored her and looked at Harvey. My former partner wanted to be an actor and I saw that he had on one of his knock-off Armani suits. “What’s it like?” I asked him.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Harvey said.

  I glanced at Jessica. “Working with someone who’s an expert on canine sex.”

  I walked away, ignoring Jessica who was screeching loud enough to wake the dead.

  When I got into the stationhouse I saw that the taskforce was already assembling in the conference room. After settling Bernie in a corner, I said hello to Janice Taylor before taking a seat between Joe Dawson and the lieutenant.

  Even though it seemed like we were withholding information that was pertinent to our investigation, John Greer had told me after leaving Quantico that he didn’t want me saying anything to the taskforce about Lucas Caufield being Joe Dawson’s brother. Greer wasn’t at this morning’s meeting and, despite his request, I’d called Oz last night and apprised him of the situation, thinking my superior deserved to know what was happening. We both agreed to keep quiet about it, for now.

  “I see you survived Quantico,” Oz said, smiling at me and fussing with his bowtie after I took a seat.

  “Barely,” I said. “Joe and I were under siege by a group of profilers. We barely escaped with our lives.”

  Dawson leaned over the table, looked at Oz, and deadpanned, “Just between the three of us, I think The Prophet wears a suit and works at Quantico.”

  The lieutenant called the meeting to order by mentioning the article in the Herald-Press. “They somehow got ahold of the lines of poetry sent to Jenna Collin’s pastor. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look at the article, but they’ve also got some history on The Prophet and his ties to the Florida crime and the poetry recovered there. The chief is holding a press conference later today. I don’t have to tell you this turns up the heat on all of us.”

  Dawson and I then took turns, along with Janice Taylor, updating the group on what we’d discussed at the FBI Academy. I’d made a list of the key items that all three crimes appeared to have in common, including the fact that all the victims had been found posed in a cave, they’d been sexually assaulted, and their manner of death had been identical. I then added the fact that The Prophet sent poetry to the victim’s clergy in the last two crimes and that he was using proxies or apprentices to do his killing.

  I then summarized what the Unit-3 profilers had theorized. “As strange as it might sound, the behaviorists believe that the killer’s signature is a recreation of the spider-wasp lifecycle. Just as the wasp and its offspring consumes another living creature while it’s alive, The Prophet is engaging in a similar behavior. In his worldview, he’s the wasp and the white spider is his innocent victim, who acts as a host.”

  Janice Taylor confirmed what I’d said, before Christine Belmont spoke up. “A host for what?”

  “A host for evil,” I said. “The Prophet uses innocence to bring evil into the world.”

  The room was quiet for a moment. Alex Hardy then asked, “What do we know about the proxies?”

  “The profilers believe they’re more aptly described as apprentices,” I said, looking at Taylor, who nodded her head in agreement. “The Prophet recruits and then trains them to carry out his beliefs.”

  Agent Taylor supported what I’d said, and added, “It’s the opinion of the Behavioral Analysis Unit that the apprentice’s beliefs become identical to those of The Prophet. He creates killing machines that have adopted his worldview.”

  Jeremy Spender spoke up, addressing the group in the pedantic manner we were now accustomed to. “While the profile might sound strange, the theme carries a common thread with other mass murders. The Prophet is the dominant, using a submissive to demonstrate that he has power and control. The victims are sexually assaulted, perhaps forced to engage in some form of coerced marriage ceremony, and then murdered and posed, using an insect in the process that parallels the killer’s own motives. It’s The Prophet’s way of showing us his superiority and his control over both life and death.”

  “You profilers must all be drinking the
same brain altering Kool-Aid,” Dawson said, looking up from his puzzle at Spender. “I’ve been doing my own profile of you and have decided that you’re as bat-shit crazy as our killer.”

  “I won’t continue to sit here and be disparaged,” Spender said. “I’m reporting this to Agent Greer.”

  “Go ahead. Maybe he’ll stick a wasp up your ass and see if you’re full of shit.”

  After Spender stormed out of the room to a chorus of chuckles, Oz got us back on track. “So where do we go from here?”

  “Since there was a four year break between the killings,” I said, “the profilers ran a list of subjects who were in custody for violence or sex crimes in proximity to the states where our crimes occurred.” I pulled the stack of paperwork out of my briefcase. “We’re going to need to break into working groups, look at these subjects in detail, and try to determine if any of them have been in California and in proximity to the most recent murders.”

  There was a unified groan from the group, followed by complaints from Belmont and Hardy that they were being used as clerks.

  Hardy pointed at Selfie, who this morning had purple hair with gold highlights, and wore an orange and green blouse. “Why don’t you use the fashion plate to do the grunt work? Let the rest of us do some real police work.”

  Selfie didn’t mince words in defending herself. “I don’t make fun of your cheap suits, bad haircut, and your even worse attitude, so keep your opinion to yourself.”

  Oz spoke up before Hardy went off, leveling his eyes on him, and putting the tubby detective in his place. “Pushing paper and making phone calls is part of police work, in case you’ve forgotten.” He looked at Selfie. “And Ms. Rogers is an equal part of this taskforce, and she’s a crime analyst, not a clerk.”

  We spent the rest of the day going through the criminal records, calling parole agents, and talking to detectives in the local jurisdictions where the subjects on our list resided. It was tedious work, but Oz kept us on task by having lunch delivered, along with several cartons of Starbucks coffee.

  Late in the day, Allison Schwab brought a subject she’d been checking on to our attention. “I just got off the phone with the local cop shop in Gainesville, Florida. One of the sex offenders on our list lived there up until about a year ago when he moved to California. I talked to a detective who knew him from past contacts. He said in his opinion the guy is dangerous and disturbed. He moved to Southern California about six months ago. His parole was supposed to be transferred, but they don’t know if that ever happened.”

  Ted was putting the names of subjects of interest on a whiteboard and said to Schwab, “What’s the guy’s name?”

  The FBI agent gave us the parolee’s name, spelling out his surname as Ted wrote it on the board. “Tyler Linden.”

  THIRTY

  I left the station at six then remembered that I’d promised to take Lexi to the auditions for her upcoming school play. I grabbed a bite to eat, fed Bernie with kibble that I keep in the trunk of my car, and then picked up Lexi at her grandparents’ house.

  Before leaving work, we’d discussed setting up surveillance on Tyler Linden’s house. The convicted sex offender lived in Chatsworth, a suburb of Los Angeles County. He had no record in California, but we’d learned that his parole had not yet been transferred through something called the Interstate Commission for Adult Offender Supervision.

  The commission facilitated the transfer of parole supervision amongst the states, but was often backlogged, with some jurisdictions dragging their feet in picking up supervision due to heavy workloads. We learned that Linden’s parole had been transferred to Los Angeles County, but had not yet been assigned to an officer.

  Oz had arranged for Christine Belmont and Alex Hardy to take the first night’s stakeout of Linden’s house. The two detectives were none too happy about their weekend being compromised and let everyone know it. Oz had tried to console them by putting Ted and me on duty this coming Sunday. Ted was less than thrilled with giving up part of his Sunday, but, since my personal life was nonexistent, I had no problem with the upcoming duty.

  As we drove to the school, I noticed that my young friend seemed a little down. She’d barely said two words after I’d said hello. I asked her if everything was okay.

  Lexi was wearing jeans and a yellow sweater. With her slender figure she looked a lot younger than her fifteen years. Her gaze was lost in the blur of traffic as she finally said, “I got asked to the winter formal.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful.” When she didn’t respond, I said, “Or is it?”

  She found my eyes but then looked away. “The boy—his name is Jerome. He’s a junior, a couple of grades ahead of me.”

  I knew only too well how older boys could sometimes pressure younger, vulnerable girls into doing things they’d later regret. As far as I knew, my youthful friend had never had a boyfriend and didn’t date. “Lexi, if you’re not sure about going, you don’t…”

  She looked at me. “It’s not that. Jerome is…he’s in a wheelchair.”

  I glanced over at her, unsure how to respond.

  Lexi went on, “His family was in an accident when Jerome was four. They were killed…” She took a breath. “…just like my mother.” She looked away. “He ended up paralyzed.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry…” We were quiet, not speaking for a couple of minutes as we approached her school. I glanced over at her as I pulled into the school parking lot. “You’re still not sure about the dance, are you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just that…” She sighed. “I don’t have a dress.”

  I chuckled. “Is that what this is about? I can help you.”

  “Really? I asked grammie and she said she couldn’t afford it. I don’t want you…”

  I pulled into a parking space and turned to her. “Not another word. We’re going shopping next weekend. That’s a promise.”

  She reached over and hugged me. It brought tears to my eyes, maybe because there were other girls that I knew about whose lives had been senselessly and tragically ended that would never get to go to a school dance.

  The tryouts for Our Town, Lexi’s play, were held in the school gymnasium. I saw there were only a handful of kids, maybe a dozen at most, milling about the gym floor as I took a seat in the bleachers and Bernie settled at my feet. Given the poor showing, it seemed likely to me that Lexi would get one of the parts.

  I watched as she auditioned for the part of Emily Webb, the main character in the play. She stumbled on her lines on the first run through, but then recovered and seemed to do better.

  “Great kid.”

  The voice came from the bleachers behind me and I turned to see Lexi’s English teacher, Mr. Walker.

  “Are you helping out with the production?” I asked.

  He came down a couple of rows and took a seat near me, at the same time brushing a hand through Bernie’s fur. “I’m just helping with the props and putting scripts together.” He smiled. “It’s one of those extra-curricular duties that teachers sometimes get saddled with.” He held out a hand. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves more formally. I’m Dillon Walker.”

  I shook his hand, at the same time again realizing how handsome he was. “Kate Sexton, as in detective, but you already know that.”

  He looked at my big dog. “And Bernie.”

  I looked into his green eyes. They were almost the same color as mine. “We’re a team,” I said, referencing my dog. I turned back to the students on the gym floor who had broken into small groups before looking back at him. “Do you know when they’ll decide about the casting for the play?”

  “Probably in a couple of days.” He lowered his voice. “Off the record, while I’m not sure if it will be a major part, I’m sure Lexi will make the cut.”

  “That’s terrific.” I glanced at my youthful friend who was delivering lines again. I turned back to Lexi’s teacher. “She’s had a difficult year.”

  His eyes softened and he looked over at L
exi. “So I’ve heard, but we’ll make it better.”

  There was something compassionate in the way he said it that made me believe him. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Would you…” He paused and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m a little out of practice with this, but I was wondering if you might be available to have a drink this weekend. My treat, and just as friends, nothing more.”

  I smiled and regarded him for a moment. The thought of going out with a man again, if only for a drink, hadn’t remotely crossed my mind over the past few weeks.

  But then I remembered the words of Dr. Chan, the therapist I’d seen who had helped me with my recovery. When you’re ready and open to a relationship, it will find you.

  I surprised myself by saying, “I think I’d like that. Just a drink, no strings.”

  “How ‘bout The Broadway Bar, at eight, Saturday night?”

  “See you then.”

  Later, as I drove Lexi home, she seemed a little down again. I decided to cheer her up. “I saw Mr. Walker in the gym. He’s helping out with the play and he thinks there’s a good chance you’ll get one of the parts.”

  Her eyes brightened. “I hope it’s Emily.”

  “I don’t know. But whatever part you get, just remember it’s a start. I’m proud of you for doing this.”

  We chatted about school and her upcoming winter formal as we drove until her demeanor became serious again. Lexi looked over at me and said, “I saw you…” I found her eyes. “On television a couple of days ago…when that girl was murdered.”

  I knew that the press had been running non-stop coverage of the murder since The Prophet’s poem had surfaced. I looked back at the highway, knowing that I needed to tread lightly. “I was there.”

  I glanced over again, seeing that her eyes were unfocused, lost in the blur of lights in the city. She went on, “What…how could someone…” She wheezed out a breath and found my eyes. “How could someone do that?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Lexi. Sometimes bad things happen and no one knows why.” She didn’t look at me. As I drove, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her brushing a tear. “You okay, sweetheart?”