Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “The lock’s sprung,” I explained to Mo, helping her into the backseat. “Can’t afford the repair.”

  Mo crammed herself into the seat with Bernie, spandex and fur in a tin can. “No problem. Beats my Vespa.”

  I’d forgotten that Mo rode a Vespa around Hollywood—two hundred pounds on a motor scooter. Maybe she and Natalie would be doing their Sistah Snoop business on the motorbike. In my state of exhaustion, the thought almost made me laugh out loud.

  “How are things with you and Clyde?” I asked Natalie after we were waved past the barricades and moved down the street. It was after three in the morning, but there were still dozens of reporters camped out on the sidewalk.

  “We’re dating again,” Natalie said with a giggle. “Acting like a couple of teenagers.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing Natalie does surprises me, including the idea of her reconciling with her eighty-something husband. She and Clyde had separated a couple of weeks earlier because, according to Natalie, they lacked sexual compatibility.

  “Do you think you’ll get back together again?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “All depends on the drug he’s taking.”

  I didn’t say anything, afraid that she’d start talking about Viagra and their love life.

  “I guess you’d say it’s more of a herb,” she went on. “Clyde got it from one of them Chinese doctors. It’s called Monkey Penis.”

  I couldn’t help myself and laughed, but then worried where the conversation would take us. “That’s okay, I don’t need to hear about it.”

  Natalie smiled. “It’s got the old boy swinging from the trees, beating his chest.” She lowered her voice. “Truth is, he’s startin’ to wear me out.”

  “Knew a guy like that once,” Mo said. “Nice enough fellow. Made some of the working girls a small fortune, until his wife found out.”

  I imagined that Mo had seen it all working as a pimp who tried to get her girls off the street and into a better life. “What did his wife do?”

  “Let’s just say that after she found out, he was still swinging from a tree—by his neck.”

  I changed the subject as I turned up the street to their apartment, a block off the Melrose shopping district. “I want you both to be careful with this bodyguard business. I think whoever killed Harriett Nordquist is a danger to Karma. That could put you both in the line of fire.”

  “Don’t get your warts in a worry,” Natalie said.

  Warts. A wave of depression hit me. Natalie must have also thought I looked like a frog in my green dress.

  “I’ve been taking one of them marital arts classes,” Natalie added. “Had me a real slobberknocker with a lumpfish in class the other night. Put the big hurt on him.”

  “Marital arts,” I said, not bothering to correct her as I pulled to the curb. “That’s probably a popular class.”

  After saying goodbye to my friends, a few minutes later Bernie and I pulled up in front of my apartment. I walked to the front door and my partner began a deep, threatening growl. I looked up in time to see a man coming out of the shadows. He was headed directly for me.

  Chapter Seven

  Myra pushes down the images from her past. The psychiatric hospital becomes a distant memory as she moves up the rapper’s stairway with her sisters. The electric buzz behind her eyes is still there like a match waiting to light a fuse.

  When they reach the upper story landing, Myra pauses, savoring the moment before she opens the door to the maid’s bedroom. She turns the knob and the door creaks open.

  “Who is there?” the housekeeper calls out.

  The hooded women don’t bother answering. They work quickly, tying the maid’s hands and feet, pushing a rag into her mouth.

  When they finish, Myra kills the sound machine, snaps on the lamp next to the bed, and bends down to the woman. She wants her to see the leather mask, the dark eyes that stare at her. It’s all part of the plan. She whispers to the maid, watching as the horror registers on the elderly woman’s face.

  After they’re finished terrifying the maid, they leave her alive and go back down the hallway to the superstar’s bedroom. Before opening the door, Myra turns to Chloe. She sees the young woman’s eyes through her mask. There’s something dark, unknown there. Myra isn’t sure if it’s excitement or terror, or both.

  They push open the bedroom door and find Karma’s rapper boyfriend asleep in the bed with his clothes on. Myra isn’t surprised, given the drugs and alcohol that Love Dawg consumes. The handsome young man doesn’t even stir when they turn on the light and bind his arms and legs with leather straps to the bed posts.

  After he’s properly prepared, Myra reaches into her duffle bag and pulls out the camera. She takes her time setting up the telescoping tripod, making sure that the angle is just right. She turns on the camera and looks through the viewfinder as the rapper finally begins to stir.

  Once their victim is fully awake, Myra uses the carving knife to cut away his clothing. Her knife rakes against the singer’s dark skin drawing blood. As the blood oozes up from the wounds, the man screams. A smile parts her lips when the realization about what’s happening fully registers on his face.

  “What the fuck?” he says.

  Myra shakes her head, sees the terror as he takes in the dark masks of the women circling his bed. “Sorry, lover boy. Tonight we’re not here to fuck.”

  Rose begins to chant in a soft, rhythmic beat that she repeats. “We honor the one who is chosen. His will shall be done.”

  Behind Rose, Myra sees that Henna has her arms folded. Her eyes are fixed on Chloe. Even through the mask, she can see that the homely woman’s lips are twisted into a sneer.

  Myra turns to her young apprentice. “Chloe, come here.”

  The young woman slowly moves forward, her body trembling.

  “Take the knife,” Myra demands, holding the blade up to her.

  The girl’s quivering hand moves up, finding the handle.

  Rose is behind her now, helping move Chloe toward the man who is writhing in his bed, straining against the leather straps and begging for his life.

  “We are one,” Rose says to Chloe. “We are sisters.”

  Myra raises a hand, silencing Rose. She turns to Chloe. Her words are tender, the words of a lover. “The time has come, Chloe. Show me that you love me.”

  Chloe’s shuddering hand moves up, the silver blade gleaming in the overhead light. The camera takes it all in as the singer screams and pleads for his life, “Please...God no…don’t do this.”

  Myra watches as Chloe’s hand comes down… It suddenly stops. The knife drops, clattering to the floor.

  Before Myra can react, Chloe turns and runs from the room. Myra turns to the other women and hisses, “Go after her, now. She can’t get away.”

  The electricity behind Myra’s eyes crackles and then explodes, lighting the fuse of rage inside her. She picks up the knife and turns back to the rapper. The singer’s terrified eyes fix on the blade as she holds it up to him.

  Myra reaches up, pulls off the mask, and shows him her face. “Nice to see you again lover boy.” The blade comes crashing down, exploding through her victim’s chest and turning the world red.

  “My sweet lover,” Myra says, feeling Azazel’s presence inside her as blood spurts from the dying man’s heart. “My life is your life.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Just so you know, you don’t get the rawhide chew if you attack me,” Jack Bautista said, coming out of the shadows. He had a bouquet of roses and a bottle of wine.

  I called Bernie off. “You talking to me or the dog?”

  We were on the sidewalk in front of Clyde’s Appliance Universe. I rent the apartment above the store that’s owned by Natalie’s husband. It’s not your typical living quarters, but it’s comfortable, convenient, and, most of all, cheap. It’s all I could afford after my divorce.

  “I take it back,” Jack said. “You attack me and you not only get the
chew, but the flowers and the wine.”

  He came closer. I saw him taking in my green outfit and hair. I wanted to pull off one of the manhole covers on the street and crawl in.

  Before he could say anything about how I belonged in a swamp or a mass grave or a public sewer, I cut him off. “Don’t say another word until we get upstairs.”

  I unlocked the door and had him and Bernie follow me into the apartment, where I disappeared into the bedroom for ten minutes. I lost the dress, showered, ran a brush and some conditioner through my hair, and slipped into a tee shirt and pair of jeans. It wasn’t great, but I was no longer green, frizzy, and looked like the living dead. I now had wine and flowers and Jack.

  “Saw the circus on TV,” Jack said, handing me a glass of wine after I found a vase for the roses and tossed my mail, consisting of bills I couldn’t afford to pay, into a wicker basket.

  We settled in on the sofa. Jack had on brown khaki pants and a blue sweater. The light scent of his cologne was delicious—something earthy with a hint of vanilla. I looked up into his eyes. They were like deep pools of caramel syrup—eyes that I sometimes lose myself in.

  “Looks like your mom raised both hell and the dead tonight,” he added.

  “Something like that.” I sipped the wine, breathed, and felt some of the day’s stress finally melting away. “Karma’s manager took the bullet. I’m not sure if she was the intended victim, though.” I sipped some more wine. It was a chardonnay, cold with a wonderful oak texture. I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon.

  “Given the high priced talent in the room, it doesn’t seem likely,” he said.

  “That was my thought, but Skully has different ideas.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “What do you mean?” I tipped up my glass again.

  “He’s been all over the news, doing interviews.”

  “What?” I set my glass down and flipped on the TV. They had a late night rerun of the local news. We watched for a couple of minutes. They showed a parade of news vans and reporters down the street from Mom’s house.

  Then Skully came on, interviewed by Haley Tristan, one of Hollywood’s entertainment reporters. I hate Tristan, almost as much as I hate Skully. She’s a loud-mouthed, arrogant witch of a woman who always has her slutty assistant, Cher, at her side.

  “We’re following up on several aspects of the investigation,” Skully said, his big mug filling the screen. “We have no reason to believe at this time that the entertainer known as Karma was the intended target of the shooting.”

  “We understand that her manager was shot,” Tristan said. “Does the department have any information about a possible motive?”

  “We’re looking into several leads, but I’m not at liberty to discuss anything about a motive at this time.”

  “What about astrology?” Tristan asked. “Was that a factor in what happened tonight?”

  I saw the perspiration pop on Skully’s bald head, his face flush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Isn’t it true,” Tristan went on, “a séance was in progress when the shooting occurred and a tarot card was found in the street near the residence?”

  I watched as Skully mopped his brow, a vein pulsing in his head. “I have no comment at this time.”

  “Shit,” I said, turning off the TV. I stood up and paced around the room. “How in the hell does Tristan know any of that?” I was so angry I wanted to scream.

  “You know how these things go,” Jack said. “The department has more leaks than the Titanic.”

  “Yeah, and those leaks will eventually sink us all.”

  A key piece of evidence had already been compromised. In any homicide investigation some information is held back, used to determine a possible motive and suspects. After what I’d heard from Skully and Tristan, I knew we were already on a sinking ship, barely treading water.

  Jack came over to me with more wine. “Let it go for the night, Kate.” He kissed me and I felt warm all over. I sipped the wine again, my head already spinning from the alcohol.

  We went back to the sofa where things got a little more heated. When Jack surfaced for air and more wine, I gave him the key to my apartment. “So that you don’t have to wait on the steps, next time,” I explained.

  He took the key. “Suppose I walk in, find you with another guy.”

  “Anything’s possible. I know this fellow who’s pretty strong and awfully hairy.”

  “He sounds a little threatening.” His lips found my neck.

  “He’s very protective…even has a jealous streak.” I started to moan.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We continued to kiss until I stood up, took his hand and we headed for the bedroom. I saw that Bernie was still working on the rawhide chew in the corner of the living room.

  “My guy can sometimes bite, too,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s a vampire.”

  I pushed the bedroom door closed behind us. We came together, breath and lips and hands, as we stumbled across the room. We headed for the bed, clothes flying off.

  “Ever heard about something called, Monkey Penis?” I said.

  Jack pulled me down to the bed. “No, but I’ve heard that some remarkable things can be done with a banana.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jack’s phone rang as the gray light of dawn seeped into the bedroom. I heard him saying something about a flight reservation before he came back to bed.

  I glanced over at the alarm clock. It was just after seven. I groaned, thought about my promise to meet Charlie and Pearl at the Dawg pound, as Charlie called it. Jack put an end to that thought. It was almost eight by the time I regained enough of my strength and senses to look at the clock again.

  Then I remembered his earlier phone call. “You leaving town, Bautista?” I was still trying to catch my breath.

  “The sheriff said to be gone by sun up or there’d be a hanging. Looks like you just might have got me strung-up.”

  “Yeah,” I said, amidst a tangle of sheets and blankets. “Heard they’re forming a posse, coming after you.”

  Jack came closer, kissed me. I sat up, bunched my pillows and pulled the sheet up around me. I knew I should head for the shower, but instead asked, “So what gives?”

  He leaned over on one arm, looked at me, then looked away. “I got a job offer, Kate. Old friend from Homeland Security gave me a call. He wants to meet in DC.” He looked back at me. “I couldn’t say no to meeting with him tomorrow, but I haven’t said yes to the offer.”

  I exhaled, my gaze drifting away. “I’m not sure what that means.” I looked back at him. “For us.”

  He smiled. “Maybe a coast to coast relationship. Different cities, hotels, airports. Might be exciting.”

  “Yeah, unless the posse gets you first; strings you up.”

  My phone rang. I pulled the sheet up with me, covering myself as I went for the phone on the dresser.

  A coast to coast relationship. It was the last thing I needed. After a year of being single, not trusting, I’d finally found someone. Now, as quickly as we’d gotten together, it all seemed to be slipping away. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have anyone in my life. The department was full of older, single women with thickening waistlines, expanding hips, and nicknames I tried to ignore. I saw myself as one of these women, wearing a green dress with frizzy gray hair, as I picked up the phone.

  I listened for a moment as Charlie came on the line. “Be right there,” I said, ending the call.

  Jack must have seen the shock on my face or maybe just the despair. “What is it?”

  I looked over at him, pulling the sheet tighter around me. “Karma’s fiancé, Love Dawg. He was murdered last night.”

  ***

  Bernie and I found Charlie, Pearl, and a half-dozen police cruisers at Love Dawg’s estate. The gate was open. I flashed my badge to one of the uniforms and parked Olive in the expansive driveway.

  I found Charlie and Pearl just ins
ide the sprawling modern residence. Skully wasn’t there yet, and the press hadn’t been alerted. I was thankful for small favors.

  “The crime scene is upstairs,” Charlie said, his tired brown eyes finding me. “But first, the housekeeper has an interesting story to tell.”

  I followed him into the living room while Bernie waited with Pearl and one of the responding officers. I was introduced to a sad looking woman of about fifty. She wore a robe and clutched rosary beads with both hands.

  “Ms. Simmental, this is my partner, Detective Sexton,” Charlie said. “Can you tell her what you told me happened last night?”

  The housekeeper looked at me as I bent down to her, nodding encouragement. Even before she spoke, it was obvious that she was terrified.

  “Four women come into my room,” she began in broken English. “I no harm nobody so I don’t know why they bother me. I asleep. They wake me. Tie my hands and feet, place rag in my mouth.”

  “Did they say anything?” I asked.

  Her gaze drifted away. She whispered a prayer, looked back at me. “One woman, she tell me something bad. She say she is the…angel de la muerte.”

  I looked at Charlie as he translated what I’d already guessed. “The angel of death.”

  After further discussion, the maid said she was sure the intruders were all women, even though they were dressed in black and wearing some kind of masks. The housekeeper had freed herself early this morning and found Love Dawg’s body in his bedroom.

  After that, I couldn’t understand much of what she tried to tell us about the murder scene because it was all hysterics and prayers. All I knew was that the crime scene wouldn’t be pretty.

  I slipped on gloves and paper booties before Charlie led me up the stairs to the rapper’s bedroom. We moved through the doorway and I pushed down the bile rising in my throat. The scene was worse than anything I could have imagined.