Hollywood Prisoner: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “What’s it gonna be?” Natalie asked her. “Queen B or J-Lo?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I want you all to go with me for my initial appointment.” Nana’s gray eyes swung over in my direction. “Even you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “We all know that you could use some breast work. I was thinking Dr. Theodore might give me a BOGO. You could end up looking like a real woman, instead of a skinny girl.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  Nana again pleaded her case to all of us. “I really need you to come with me next Monday and help me pick out a new face and body. This is a decision I’m going to have to live with the rest of my life.”

  “Yeah, and, in your case, that could be as long as a couple of weeks,” Natalie said.

  “Pleeeease,” Nana begged. “I’m afraid I’ll come out of the makeover machine like one of those actresses who ends up looking like a lion, or with lips that are bigger than Mick Jagger’s.”

  Mo sighed. “You got a point, Nana. And you don’t got a lotta margin for error.” She looked at me. “You got any plans for next Monday, like maybe knockin’ off...never mind.”

  I tried to ignore what she almost said and told Nana, “I’ll try to work it into my schedule.”

  Nana stood and sighed. “I appreciate it. I wanna come out of Dr. Theodore’s machine looking so hot it will melt the waistband in Jay-Bo’s undies. I’ll see you all on Monday.”

  After she was gone, Natalie said, “If I were Jay-Bo, I’d go commando and take the first plane back to Transylvania.”

  “Or maybe just drive a stake through my own heart,” Mo said. She regarded me. “How you doin’ with everything that happened?”

  “Yeah,” Natalie said. “What’s it like bein’ a homicidal maniac?”

  “Okay, I’ve had about all I can take,” I said. “You’re both sworn to secrecy. Joe Dawson is alive.”

  Mo’s forehead blossomed into deep ridges. “Sure he is. You sufferin’ some kind of mental breakdown, Kate?”

  “Maybe she’s gone psycho and will end up on one of those nighttime crime shows,” Natalie suggested. “It could even be that she’s sufferin’ from IED.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Intermittent Explosive Disorder. I heard some killers develop altered personalities that take over their body.” She fixed her eyes on me. “Is your name Sybil, and are you insane?”

  “No, and I’m not insane. Joe Dawson is alive. It was all a setup to make Jenson Moore believe he’s dead to try and save Lindsay.”

  Mo was still skeptical. “You sure ‘bout this?” She looked at Natalie. “Maybe we should call a shrink.”

  “I think she’s too far gone. We’d better just keep our distance, hide any sharp knives, maybe lock her up in a cage.”

  I stood and called Bernie over. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  Natalie tugged on my arm. “We was just givin’ you the Mickey. Is Joe really okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  Mo exhaled and said to Natalie, “All I know is I’m glad we’re not livin’ next to a homicidal maniac.” She looked at me. “What you gonna do now?”

  “Hope that Lindsay is released, and then...I guess we take things from there.” Bernie was at my side, and I put on his leash. “I really do have to get going.”

  As I was leaving, Natalie said, “Don’t forget ‘bout that meeting we got with Howie the night after tomorrow. He’s gonna help plan Izzy’s ultimate payback.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I said.

  “We also got that meeting comin’ up with Carla Manson.”

  “Who?”

  “My relationship therapist. She’s gonna help us both find the perfect guy.”

  I shook my head. “With a name like that, I just hope Carla Manson isn’t related to a guy who’s serving a life sentence for murder.”

  FORTY-NINE

  When I got to the station the next morning, I got a call from John Greer, telling me that a meeting had been scheduled for mid-week at the FBI headquarters in Los Angeles. I asked him if there had been any word from Jenson Moore or my sister. He said there had been no contact, but told me they had sources actively working in the area and hoped something would break soon.

  I hadn’t spoken to Joe since he’d called me and assumed he was keeping a low profile. I tried to put thoughts about my sister out of my mind and pushed paperwork around on my desk until Lieutenant Edna came by.

  “I’m going to let you go with Darby and Mel to interview that O’Dell woman this morning,” Edna said. “Keep it on the down low. I don’t want Dembowski to get wind of this.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Between you and me, I want you to help keep Darby in line. Section One can’t afford him fucking up another investigation.”

  An hour later, Darby drove us to Westlake Village, about an hour north of Hollywood, to meet with Abby O’Dell. As he drove, he wasted no time irritating me.

  “Did you read that article in the Herald-Press this morning?” he asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

  “I make it a point not to read the papers if I can help it.”

  “They’re speculating that Jenson Moore and the Swarm are planning something big, and it’s going to happen soon. They think they’re targeting law enforcement.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They already killed your buddy.” His muddy eyes found me in the mirror again. “No one on the blue team is safe.”

  “I think that’s just speculation. We have no idea where the Swarm is going to strike next.”

  “You’re a jinx. No one is safe around you.”

  Mel spoke up as I rolled down the window for Bernie to get some air, at the same time doing a slow burn. “That’s ridiculous.” Her dark eyes shot lasers at her partner. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Wow, somebody must have peed in your oatmeal.”

  Mel lowered her voice. “That somebody is sitting next to me, and I’ve had it with your nasty comments.”

  We rode in silence the rest of the way. I appreciated that Mel had tried to defend me, but was concerned that other cops might be thinking the same thing as Darby. I’d heard some grumbling about the fact that Lindsay was being held by the Swarm raising the stakes for all the officers involved in the investigation. I knew it was unavoidable that some of the fallout was probably coming my way.

  Abby O’Dell lived in a condo in one of those planned developments that was built around a manmade lake. After she answered the door, she suggested that we meet on a terrace overlooking the lake.

  After walking across the grounds of the complex and finding seats, O’Dell’s deeply set brown eyes took in the water. “It’s very peaceful here. One of my favorite places to come and just hang out.”

  Patrick Hopkins’ ex-girlfriend was about thirty and looked like she worked out on a regular basis. She was pretty, with shoulder length brown hair and high cheek bones. According to the background Selfie and Molly had put together on her, she worked as an assistant to the vice president for a nearby biotech company.

  “The grounds are beautiful,” Mel agreed.

  O’Dell chatted about living in Westlake, a city known for its upscale restaurants and shopping districts, before Mel got down to business. “As I mentioned when I called, we’re here about Campbell Turner and Patrick Hopkins. They were in a relationship several years ago when they were in college together.”

  She nodded. “I think Pat said they were together for about a year.”

  “Did he ever say anything to you about her while you were dating?”

  She chuckled. “Oh, he had a lot to say, none of it very nice. Their relationship didn’t end well, and I think it left him with some deep scars.”

  Mel glanced at me, then looked back at O’Dell. “Tell us about that.”

  “I think Pat was still in love with her, or maybe just obsessed. He talked ab
out her a lot, especially when he was drinking.”

  “Can you tell us, specifically, what he would say?”

  “He made some threats, said stuff like he wanted to hurt her. He also made fun of her wanting to become an actress.”

  “You said his relationship with Campbell didn’t end well,” I said. “Did he ever say what happened?”

  “Pat was friends with Blake Lambert when they attended Michigan State. He introduced Campbell to him. When Blake learned that Campbell wanted to be an actress, he helped get her a part in a community play. She and Blake hit it off, and she eventually left Pat for him.”

  I looked at Mel and knew we were probably thinking the same thing. Hopkins losing Campbell to Blake Lambert had left him with deep scars. The only question was, were those scars deep enough for Hopkins to want to kill both Campbell and Lambert, and maybe Luke Morgan when he got in the way?

  “They were still seeing one another, weren’t they?” Darby said, interrupting my thoughts. “He was screwing her behind your back.”

  Mel shot daggers at her partner. She was about to say something when O’Dell said, “Yes, I’m almost sure of it. As I said, Pat still had feelings for her. I think he was manipulating Campbell into continuing their relationship. That’s why I broke it off with him.”

  After giving her a moment, Mel asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Do you think Mr. Hopkins could have harmed Campbell, and maybe her boyfriend?”

  She brushed her hair back, nodding her head. “Pat is smart. He’s also scary as hell. I think if he was drinking and got angry enough...” She wiped a tear from her eye. “...I think he’s capable of doing almost anything—and that’s anything as in anything bad. Do me a favor and don’t tell him I talked to you. It wouldn’t be healthy for me.”

  FIFTY

  After our meeting with O’Dell, we stopped for lunch at a restaurant in a shopping district called The Lakes. It was a serene setting, with an outdoor patio overlooking a grassy area and pond.

  Darby wasted no time, giving us his take on our case. “You want my opinion, Hopkins is a stalker. He never got over the breakup with Campbell and murdered her.”

  Mel took a bite of her sandwich, considering his theory. “If that’s the case, how do Morgan and Lambert’s deaths fit into the picture?”

  “Lambert took out Morgan, just as he told us, believing he was responsible for Campbell’s death when he found him at the house, not knowing that Hopkins killed Campbell before Morgan got there. Hopkins later also took care of Lambert, fearing that he might tell us about his past with Campbell and start pointing fingers at him.”

  “It still doesn’t explain what the neighbor saw,” I said.

  “Like I said before, the neighbor’s old. Old people can’t remember anything and make stuff up. They’re full of shit.”

  I was tired of the way he disparaged everyone. “Someday you’re going to be one of those old people, and that day isn’t that far away.”

  His ruddy complexion reddened. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’ve got a head start on making stuff up and being full of crap.”

  He stood. “Fuck you. I’m going for a walk.”

  While he was gone, I asked Mel for her thoughts on what O’Dell had said.

  “I think Patrick Hopkins had the motive to kill both Turner and Lambert. Let’s see if Selfie and Molly can locate him and set up an interview.”

  “O’Dell said he’s smart. If he’s good for the murders, he’s probably set some kind of alibi in place.”

  “Maybe, but I also think this might have been a crime of passion. It could be that our brilliant attorney didn’t think things through well enough.”

  I glanced over at Darby, who was tossing his leftover sandwich to some ducks. “Maybe your partner has a heart after all.”

  She looked at him. “Let’s find an elderly person and ask her.”

  ***

  After we got back to the station, we updated Edna on our interview, then asked Selfie and Molly to try and track down Patrick Hopkins. Late in the day, I got a call from Jerry Sumner with SID, telling me that he had some findings on the evidence I’d left with him from the Taft homicide. After making my way through heavy traffic, Bernie and I met with him in his downtown office.

  Sumner had some pictures of the hook on his computer screen. He scrolled through the images, showing me close-ups of the instrument. “These images were taken with the SEM.” He pushed his thick glasses up on his nose. “It’s noteworthy there’s no manufacturing stamp anywhere on the device.” He pointed to the screen. “There are also numerous abrasions that were made when it was forged. It’s typical of a blacksmith’s hammer repeatedly striking and shaping the metal.” His bulging eyes found me. “This instrument isn’t something you would find in a typical assembly line process. I have no doubt that it was forged in someone’s homemade furnace.”

  “What about the wooden handle?”

  “Fashioned by someone who was also a woodworker.” He scrolled through some more images, this time showing me close-ups of the wooden handle. “These are stratifications in the wood made by a chisel. It was subsequently sanded and worn down through use, but where the wooden handle is affixed to the steel, you can still see the chisel marks.”

  I clearly saw the indentations he was talking about. “Anything else?”

  “The wood is eucalyptus. It may have been something found locally, either harvested or picked up from a fallen branch. It’s an extremely hard wood and very durable.”

  “What about DNA and chemical analysis?”

  “Sorry, nothing. Even the blood that was originally found on the instrument is no longer present.”

  “Why would that be the case?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. Sometimes smaller labs do analysis and then...you just never know. Somebody might have wiped it off or washed it down after the examination.”

  I thanked Sumner, then took Bernie for a walk in the courtyard of the SID offices, where I called Ross Adams. I took a moment and filled him in on Sumner’s findings. “He thinks the entire instrument was homemade, maybe fashioned in someone’s home workshop. The wooden handle is eucalyptus.”

  “There are a few of those trees around here, so it could have been picked up almost anywhere,” Adams said. “Let me think about the homemade aspect. It seems pretty unusual that someone would fashion something like that.”

  “Give me a call if you come up with anything,” I said. “In the meantime, I’ll make arrangements for someone to bring your evidence back.”

  “I was hoping you might make it up this way again. We could have lunch.”

  I thought about his offer. While Ross Adams was handsome and charming, it felt like I had a million things pending, especially with my sister’s circumstances. And I definitely wasn’t ready to start dating again.

  “Sorry,” I said, “lot’s going on here. I’ll probably send Molly Wingate your way with the evidence.”

  “Okay, but, just so you know, I haven’t given up on seeing you again.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  I spent a quiet night at home—too quiet. The feds were monitoring my phone, hoping I would hear from Jenson Moore or Lindsay, but no one called. The next morning when I got to the station, things heated up quickly on the Campbell Turner case. Mel got a call from Abby O’Dell, then gathered everyone together in the lieutenant’s office.

  “O’Dell said she’s being held against her will near the beach, handcuffed in a trailer that belongs to Patrick Hopkins. She said Hopkins somehow learned that we’d contacted her. She described him as angry, drunk, and out of control.”

  “Where is Hopkins now?” Edna asked.

  “He went to the store, apparently for more booze, and forgot to take her phone away.”

  “Where’s the trailer?”

  “In the state park off Pacific Coast Highway, just south of Malibu.”

  “Let’s contact the sheriff’s department and head over
there. Maybe we can get there before Hopkins gets back.”

  “Can I go?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, but leave the dog here and keep a low profile. I don’t want the brass knowing you’re in the field.”

  The state park where Abby O’Dell was being held was in the Santa Monica Mountains, on a hillside overlooking the ocean. The area featured miles of shoreline and rocky bluffs, with several hiking trails. We found the trailer where O’Dell had been held, but no sign of her or Patrick Hopkins.

  “He must have come back and taken her,” Darby said. “They could be miles away by now.”

  “Don’t bet on that,” I said. “I just checked with the sheriff’s department. They have a unit following Hopkins’ car. He’s heading south on PCH. Fast.”

  Mel snatched the car keys out of Darby’s hand. “Get in. I’m driving.”

  We followed the winding highway south along the ocean, getting updates from the sheriff’s dispatcher as we went.

  We were in Ventura County, moving inland, when we got another call. “Our suspect is at Channel Islands State University. There’s a report that he’s on foot. No word on the victim.”

  The state university was located on the grounds of a former psychiatric hospital, about five miles from the ocean. It was like going back in time as we entered the sprawling campus with 1930s Spanish architecture and signature bell tower. By the time we caught up to the pursuing sheriff’s unit, it was stopped behind a car at the college. Abby O’Dell was standing on the sidewalk, talking to an officer. There was no sign of Hopkins.

  “He got out and ran into the parking garage,” O’Dell told us. “He’s drunk and talking crazy.”

  We were headed over to check out the garage when a motorcycle came racing out of the exit, winding its way through the campus, and heading for the freeway.

  “It’s Hopkins,” Mel said. “He’s probably going to head south, back toward LA. Let’s go.”

  The pursuit of Hopkins was covered by all the media outlets, who sent their helicopters to cover the chase. Even though he was drunk, Hopkins was proficient on a motorcycle, leading a parade of police units on a winding high speed pursuit through the San Fernando Valley and back toward Los Angeles.