by M. Z. Kelly
“Skully wants us to meet downtown in an hour,” Charlie said, after ending the call. “He said something about putting together a taskforce.”
The captain was probably maneuvering behind the scenes to push me aside, assign me a minor role in the investigation as punishment for our disagreements. “We need to catch a break,” I said to both of them. “What’s your take on Chloe’s mother?”
Charlie shrugged. “Nice enough lady. Could be that Chloe’s dead and Myra’s been using her identity when she needs to find legitimate work.”
Pearl had another angle. “Or, Chloe was one of those involved in the murder of Trevon Jackson. I know she looked like a child in the photograph, but we all know that people can change, be manipulated.”
I’d found an address on the Internet for the private detective Chloe’s parents hired as they talked. “I’m going to stop by and have a little chat with Hudson Mackenzie. I’ll see you both at the meeting.”
***
After circling the block outside Mackenzie’s West Hollywood office, I finally found a parking space. Olive rattled and sputtered to a stop.
I turned to Bernie. “I hope she’s not getting ready to break down again.” He gave me a look that I took for sympathy. I’d spent a small fortune on repairs for my car.
After giving my name to Mackenzie’s receptionist, I walked around the office that was all glass, chrome, and steel, glancing at some photographs on the tables in the waiting area. The man in the photos, who I assumed was Mackenzie, appeared to be about thirty-five. It looked like he’d been to every corner of the world. The PI probably charged a small fortune for his services, something Marilyn Bryant could hardly afford.
“Hello, Detective Sexton,” Hudson Mackenzie said as he entered the waiting room through a private entrance.
I was probably right about Mackenzie’s age. What I hadn’t realized from the photos was that the private investigator was tall, well-built, and handsome in a rugged way. He wore a dark brown tweed suit with an open collared shirt. The Hilary Clinton pantsuit I had on sent a wave of depression through me.
I introduced Bernie and we made small talk as we walked to his private office.
“I have a couple of black labs,” Mackenzie said. “Thelma and Louise.”
I looked at Bernie. “Don’t get any ideas.” I turned back to Mackenzie. “He tends to get a little animated around the ladies.”
“My kind of guy.”
There was something easy and comfortable in Mackenzie’s manner, but also an edge that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
We settled into an office that was more comfortable, less formal and modern than the outer office. There were stacks of books and magazines on his desk. I also noticed a group photograph that included the private investigator from when he’d been in the navy.
“Join the navy, see the world,” I said, indicating the photo.
“Something like that.” He smiled, his blue eyes finding mine. “More like, be a SEAL, see a few places and meet a lot of people you’d never want to run into again.” He ran a hand through wavy brown hair that I noticed for the first time had flecks of gray.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Call me Hud, please.” Maybe because his name was unusual, he explained, “Named after my grandfather in case you were wondering. And, don’t be impressed by the navy stuff. It isn’t all the excitement and glamour the media puts out there.”
He cleared some space on his desk by moving a stack of books to a shelf. “By the way, congrats on putting some very bad people out of commission.”
We took a moment and talked about my last case that had been in the press. I then went on to explain why I was there, telling him about the murder investigation and how Chloe Bryant’s identity was used by the woman who called herself, Myra.
“We have reason to believe there’s a nexus between the two killings,” I said, “but we aren’t sure why Harriett Nordquist was targeted.”
“I saw on the news that some tarot cards were found at the scene of the murders.”
I didn’t mention that the information had been leaked. “Unfortunately the press is having a field day with everything.” I moved the conversation back to Chloe Bryant. “Can you tell me how you got involved in trying to find Chloe?”
“I probably first need to explain that I’m not your typical private investigator. I work behind the scenes on a lot of cases involving missing children and kidnap victims. Some of the parties involved are high-profile personalities. My work sometimes takes me out of state or overseas.
“I happened to meet Chloe’s father in New York last year. He worked for an insurance company, settling claims. He interviewed me about a claim that was filed by the family of a kidnap victim who we had reason to believe was dead. One thing led to another and we began talking about his daughter.”
“He hired you to investigate her disappearance?”
“Not formally. He and his wife were having marital problems and couldn’t afford my services. I felt sorry for them and told him since my office is in this area I would informally look into the matter.”
“And did you turn up anything?”
For the first time since our conversation began, I saw Mackenzie hesitate. I thought maybe he knew something that he wasn’t telling me when my phone rang. It was Charlie.
“Kate, you need to get over here now,” Charlie whispered. “The meeting’s about to start and Skully’s already coming unglued that you aren’t here.”
“Tell him I’m following up on something and should be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll try, but he’s about ready to blow.”
“He’s always ready to blow,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I ended the call and turned back to Mackenzie.
“Problems?” he asked, smiling.
“Just a boss who’s the world’s biggest jerk.”
“I’ve had a few like that.”
I got back to the issue at hand. “Can you tell me what you found out about Chloe?”
Mackenzie leaned forward. Something in his expression made me think he’d made up his mind about whatever he’d been considering before the phone call.
“There’s a lot that I can tell you, Detective. But first, you need to know that what I’m about to say goes against Chloe’s mother’s wishes. She’s afraid for her daughter’s life.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “Why is that?”
“She got a call from Chloe last night. Her daughter told her that someone is trying to kill her.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Chloe Bryant lived on the streets when she first ran away,” Mackenzie explained. “A few months back, she met some young women who took her in. From what I’ve been able to piece together, they’re part of some kind of cult. It could be that the woman you’re looking for, Myra, is involved.”
“Any idea what kind of a cult this was, what they wanted with Chloe?” I asked, thankful that I was finally getting somewhere.
“I got a lot of conflicting information from the kids on the street who knew her. Some said the women were into a lot of sex and drugs. Others said there was a darker side to their activities involving witchcraft or the occult. That would seem to fit with what you told me about the murders and what I’ve seen on television.”
“You said that Chloe’s mother is frightened for her. Why didn’t she tell us that Chloe had called and let us help her?”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Hard to say. I do know that when Chloe called her, she said the women that she’d been living with were after her, trying to kill her. That’s why her mother called me. She wants my help getting Chloe back. I don’t think she trusts the police.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t Chloe just go home?”
“Chloe had some kind of run-in with the women. She ended up taking a bus to get out of the city. She’s in Santa Monica. Her mother wants me to meet her on the pier at noon tomorrow and bring her home. I’m involved because she’s
afraid for her daughter’s life.”
My phone rang. I saw that it was Charlie again. I considered not answering, but then thought about Skully and picked up.
“Charlie, I’ll be there shortly. Tell Skully that I have something…”
“It’s not about…the meeting,” Charlie said. It sounded like he was running; out of breath. “Dispatch just got a call…a neighbor who lives next door to Marilyn Bryant. She saw some women…in the backyard. Then she heard someone screaming…inside Bryant’s house.”
Chapter Eighteen
The knife draws blood, a red stream oozing up from Marilyn Bryant’s neck. Myra’s in the backseat of the car, holding the knife to the terrified woman’s throat before she can back out of the garage.
“Turn off the engine or you die right here, right now,” Myra orders, her voice a hiss of rage. She hopes that the engine has muffled the woman’s scream.
“Chloe isn’t here,” Bryant says, turning off the engine. “I haven’t seen her in months.”
Myra presses the blade against her throat again. “Move into the house now, so we can talk about it.”
Rose and Henna take over, grabbing the terrified woman by the arms and marching her toward the house. Bryant stumbles on the back steps, hits her head on a porch railing, and begins wailing.
Henna grabs the sobbing woman by the blouse, pulls her up so that she can see the knife she’s holding. “Shut your face, bitch. Keep crying and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
Bryant regains control long enough to make it inside the house. The women work quickly, tying her legs and taping her arms to a chair. Marilyn Bryant breaks down again while they work on her.
Myra walks over to her, bends down, and pricks her arm with the point of the knife. “Shut up. There won’t be another warning.”
Bryant tries to control herself, but tears continue to run down her face.
“Let’s talk about Chloe,” Myra says.
“I told you…I haven’t seen her.” There’s more crying, harder now.
“Wrong answer.” Myra comes closer to the frightened woman, her eyes dark and empty. “You have ten seconds to tell us what you know or this won’t be pretty.”
Myra watches as Marilyn Bryant’s defeated eyes fall away from her. This is so easy that she feels nothing but disgust for the woman.
“She called me…Chloe wants to come home…but…she’s afraid.”
“Where is she staying?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere in Santa Monica, I think.”
Myra shakes her head slowly. “Not good enough, Marilyn.” She takes her knife, brings it down, slicing off one of the woman’s fingers.
Bryant shrieks in pain. Myra slaps her, moves within inches of her face, and screams, “Shut up. You need to tell me where she’s staying or I slice off another finger and then another and…”
“Okay.” Bryant’s eyes dart up to Myra and she shudders in pain. She struggles to control her emotions. Her voice is tight with agony and fear. “All I know is that…she’s supposed to be on the pier in Santa Monica…tomorrow at noon…there’s a private investigator…he’s been working on Chloe’s case…he’s going to meet her there.”
Myra sees the woman’s pleading eyes come up to her. “I don’t know anything more…I swear.”
There’s more sobbing as Rose steps forward with a cloth and holds it against Bryant’s hand, to stem the bleeding.
“What’s the investigator’s name?”
“Hudson Mackenzie,” Marilyn Bryant manages to say, her voice weak and garbled. “He has an office in West Hollywood.”
“What about the cops?” Myra asks. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. I didn’t tell them anything about Chloe because I was afraid for her.” Bryant finds Myra’s dark eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s the truth, I swear it.”
“What did the cops tell you?”
“Just that they’re looking for someone named Myra…someone that Chloe might know.” Bryant sobs again, her voice weak and pleading. “I told them I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“What about us,” Myra says, motioning to her sisters. “What did Chloe tell you about us?”
“Nothing. I don’t know anything about any of you…why are you doing this?”
Myra studies the trembling, bleeding woman for a moment. She’s satisfied that Chloe’s mother doesn’t know anything more.
Myra bends down to her again, her voice lowering. “I want you to know something, Marilyn. You just killed your only daughter.”
The end comes quickly. The knife arcs up slicing across Marilyn Bryant’s neck, blood spurting across the room. Her life ends in a terrified scream of pain and despair.
“Let’s get out of here now,” Myra says to Rose and Henna.
Five minutes later, Myra and her sisters are two blocks from Marilyn Bryant’s house, on a hill with a view of the residence.
Click. Click.
The telephoto lens on Myra’s camera captures the police cars arriving at the house. A few moments later, she sees the female cop, the one she almost ran down in the street and was at the house earlier.
Myra snaps a picture of the cop and the handsome man standing next to her in the front yard. He could be the private investigator Marilyn Bryant mentioned, but she can’t be sure.
The cop will die but she will have to wait until Chloe is out of the picture. She doesn’t think the girl told her mother about her or the game, but she can’t be sure. Sometimes people die with their secrets. Sometimes even torture has its limits.
Chapter Nineteen
Mackenzie and I sped through the streets of Hollywood while Bernie lapped up the air in the backseat from an open window. We blasted through an intersection when Olive began sputtering and misfiring.
“Damn, this is all I need,” I fumed.
“Not your typical cop car,” Mackenzie said.
“Long story short, my ex ruined my credit. I get my mileage reimbursed and she’s all I could afford.”
Ten minutes before we got to Chloe’s mother’s house, as Olive still coughed and lurched through traffic, Charlie called.
“We just got a call. The responding unit is there now, Kate. We’re too late. Marilyn Bryant is dead.”
I told Mackenzie what Charlie had said after I ended the call and slowed down. I knew that our earlier visit must have prompted the killing.
When we turned onto Marilyn Bryant’s street, Mackenzie said, “We need to assume that she told her attackers about Chloe’s phone call. And if that’s the case, they’ll come after the girl on the pier tomorrow.”
I pulled to the curb in front of the house. “Since you’re a civilian I can’t let you into the crime scene.”
“Understood. I’ll call a cab.”
“I’ll call you later. We’re going to need to fill my boss in on everything you told me about Chloe and see how he wants to proceed.”
I left Mackenzie in the front yard and met up with Charlie in the living room where we’d talked to Marilyn Bryant just over an hour earlier.
The crime scene wasn’t as bad as Trevon Jackson’s, but it was bad. Halloween was just four days away and it made the holiday look tame by comparison. Bryant’s head had nearly been severed during the vicious, bloody attack.
“She’s missing the little finger on her left hand,” Charlie said, after we gloved up and examined the body in detail. “Probably told them her deepest, darkest secrets before they slashed her throat.”
“I’ll bet that secret had something to do with her daughter.” I filled him in on what Mackenzie had told me.
“We need to tell Skully. Get something set up for tomorrow.”
“As soon as he gets here, providing he doesn’t shoot me first.”
We spent the next couple of hours processing the crime scene. To my surprise, Skully didn’t show, but he did call Charlie and tell him that we were to meet him at Homicide Special Section in downtown Los Angeles at four that afternoon.
/> “He also had a message for you,” Charlie said after ending the call.
“Don’t tell me. He wants to have drinks after the meeting and apologize for being the world’s biggest idiot.”
“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind. Skully said, and I quote, ‘Tell your partner that if she isn’t here and on time, she will be walking a beat in Compton.’”
“It might be preferable to dealing with that asshole.”
After Bob Woodley and Chandra Martin arrived and began processing the scene I chatted with them for a few minutes.
“We might have gotten lucky,” Woodley told me. “We’ve got a couple of sets of prints on the chair where she was tied and several footprints in the blood that could tie this to the Jackson murder.”
I had no doubt that the same women were behind both murders, as well as the shooting of Harriett Nordquist.
“No tarot cards or song lyrics,” Chandra Martin said as Woodley walked away to process the scene. She sounded a little disappointed.
“I think they were in a hurry,” I said, then changed the subject, making small talk. “Bob told me that your dad worked homicide in Boston.”
“Daddy did murder for almost twenty years.”
As usual, there was something odd in the way she described things. “Is that how you got the bug?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve just always liked dead things.”
I tilted my head, my eyes narrowing as I tried to understand. “Really?”
“Yeah, there’s something about the dead that’s fascinating. You know, you’re here one minute and gone the next. My boyfriend always says it’s weird as hell, but kind of crazy fun.”
While she’d been helpful to us, providing information about the lyrics found at the other crime scenes, Chandra Martin was bizarre. Her obsession with death and killing wasn’t healthy for a twenty-something year old, even in her chosen profession.
As she dusted for prints, I noticed part of a tattoo on her left arm that I hadn’t seen before. I thought maybe the strange writing had something to do with her brother’s death.