Hollywood Homicide: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  Natalie changed the subject. “We got us some 411 on the set today ‘bout Russell Van Drake.”

  As usual they were interfering in my case but I was too tired to lecture them. I also needed all the help I could get.

  Mo took over, explaining, “One of the production assistants on our show worked with VD.”

  “VD?” I said, at the same time realizing it was the actor’s initials.

  “That’s what everyone called him behind his back,” Natalie said, “On account of him doing the nasty dance with half the people in Hollywood.”

  Mo went on. “Anyway, according to the production assistant, VD was seeing somebody in Santa Barbara when he disappeared.”

  My interest was piqued, since Shirley Welch’s mother had said the actor and her daughter had gone to the Mirasol Hotel near Santa Barbara before her death. Maybe they were talking about Shirley, but I decided to play dumb. “Any idea who he was seeing?”

  Mo shook her head. “All she knew was rumor had it that it was somebody VD was seeing on the side, when he wasn’t with Shirley.”

  I decided to file away what she’d said and follow up in the morning. I then asked Mo, “Would you have a second to talk privately?”

  My hefty friend set her glass down. It took a couple of tries before she managed to get out of her chair. She motioned to the wine bottle and said to Natalie and Carly, “You two leave some of that Two-buck Chuck for me.”

  I took a walk around the grounds of the Barkley with Mo and Bernie. We saw there were people still moving into one of the upstairs apartments.

  “Looks like a couple of more zombies,” Mo said. “You can tell ‘cause they walk like they got something stuck…” She smiled. “You know where.”

  She did have a point. We watched for a minute as the duo methodically moved a dresser up a stairway. I then changed the subject, telling her why I wanted to talk. I began by explaining about my meeting with the deputy chief and the confidential nature of what we’d discussed.

  “According to the brass, my lieutenant’s been hooking up with working girls at the Marquee. You and Natalie mentioned something to me before about him needing to get laid. You didn’t set him up, did you?”

  Mo’s forehead tightened, her eyes fixing on me. “What? I was just talkin’ trash. I got more sense than that.”

  I studied her for a moment and decided that she was telling the truth. “The department thought you might still have some connections at the Marquee, given your past work there. They’re wondering if you can help them out.”

  Mo’s enormous lungs deflated and she held on my eyes. “I can probably make a few inquiries. It might even give me a chance to get a couple of more girls off the streets.”

  I knew that in her past life as a pimp Mo had succeeded in rescuing dozens of women from abusive and dangerous situations.

  I gave her Captain Dembowski’s card. “If you can set something up, please give him a call, but remember this is confidential. Not even Natalie can know about it.”

  Mo nodded, her eyes holding on me. “You sure about this, Kate?”

  I met her eyes, thinking about how I might be ending Lieutenant Conrad’s career, but at the same time knowing that he was abusing his authority, both by hooking up with prostitutes and by the way he treated his employees.

  I nodded, realizing that it was a difficult choice but the right one. “I’m absolutely sure.”

  I left Mo, walked Bernie for a couple of minutes, and then headed for my apartment. After getting ready for bed I read for a while before my phone rang. It was Buck.

  “Just thought I’d see how things are going in Hollyweird,” Buck said, trying to sound lighthearted.

  “Things are as weird as ever,” I said, chuckling but at the same time feeling unsure about the call. “It’s just a matter of it being another day and another kind of weird.”

  “I heard some scuttlebutt about the Van Drake case being reassigned to your unit.”

  I confirmed what he’d said, knowing that in law enforcement circles rumors circulated almost as fast as the paparazzi reporting they’d spotted a celeb in Hollywood. “We’ve got a couple of leads we’re following up on.”

  We then discussed the Scarlett Endicott murder before he got to the real reason for his call. “I’ve been thinking about coming to Hollywood this weekend. Maybe we could have dinner and talk.”

  I didn’t respond right away because I was unsure how to respond. I finally released a breath and said, “I’m not sure…” I took a moment, gathering my thoughts, and then went on, “Let me think about it.”

  “I want us to be together, Kate. I’ve been able to get Colleen some help. She’s in the hospital, back on her meds. I don’t think she’ll be a problem again.”

  Despite what he’d said, I wasn’t convinced. I knew that his ex-wfe had been on meds before but then had gone off them for several weeks. It was probably only a matter of time until it happened again. I finally said, “Let’s give it a few more days and then make a decision.”

  After we chatted for a few minutes longer, we agreed to stay in touch and ended the call. I then turned out the light and lay in bed awake for a long time. My thoughts eventually drifted to Lindsay, how what had happened with her father and my father had forever changed our lives. We were both, in many ways, chasing demons, unsure about a lot of things in our lives, including our relationships. I finally drifted off into a restless sleep where the darkness swallowed me, mercifully requiring that I make no decisions about the future.

  SIXTY FOUR

  The Pantry was an upscale private resort on the outskirts of Scottsdale, Arizona, on sixty-three immaculately landscaped acres. Pearce Landon checked into the resort using the identity on his false driver’s license. He used a credit card that he’d had issued under that name but had never used, paying for one night’s stay. He reasoned that would be long enough to try and back track Scarlett Endicott’s stay at the resort.

  The next morning, Landon had breakfast and decided that his best approach was to work through the front line staff. He reasoned they would have had the most contact with guests during the time period he was interested in.

  He started with housekeeping services, asking one of the maids if Marsha Braden still worked there. The maid said she didn’t speak English, maybe wary of his inquiry. After a couple of more tries, a maintenance worker told him that Braden was now working at another hotel.

  That fact told Landon that he had to change tactics. He needed someone who might have knowledge of the resort’s celebrity clientele but wouldn’t be opposed to accepting money for providing confidential information. He started at the hotel’s bar, feeling out the staff there, before working his way to a cabana bar near the swimming pool. He spent nearly an hour, chatting with a young server named Dave before making his move.

  “You must get a lot of well-known people through here,” Landon said. “I’ll bet you could tell some stories.”

  Dave, a nice looking young man in his early twenties, said, “My lips are sealed.” He smiled. “But, yeah, you wouldn’t believe what goes on.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “A couple of years. It’s a way to help pay my college tuition at ASU.”

  Landon nodded. “I’ll bet it’s expensive. Just out of curiosity, how much does a semester at the university cost?”

  Dave used a rag, polishing the bar. “Upwards of ten grand, not including books.”

  “What if someone could help out with a couple thousand of those costs in return for a little information?”

  The bartender’s eyes shifted, his gaze moving away from the uncrowded bar and taking in the grounds of the hotel. He looked back at Landon. “I’d say that would buy him almost anything he wanted to know.”

  Landon sipped his beer, set the bottle down. He reached into his pocket and then pushed several bills across the table. “Scarlett Endicott.” His blue eyes held on the young man. “You get the rest when our conversation is finished.”
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  “She was…”

  “Murdered,” Landon said. “All I want is a little information, off the record. It’s just between you and me. No one else will ever know.”

  The bartender slipped the bills into his pocket. “Where would you like to begin?”

  SIXTY FIVE

  Ted, Bernie, and I got an early start the next morning—after I stopped for a latte with a double shot of extra caffeine. Sleep hadn’t come to me until well after midnight, and even then it had been restless.

  I was still unsure how I felt about Buck’s proposal to get together. Even if his wife was in the hospital, there was always the chance that she’d check herself out and go off her meds. I sipped my coffee and decided to put it out of my mind, for now.

  “So how was yesterday’s meeting downtown?” Ted asked as he took the 101 Freeway north to the Marisol Hotel, just south of Santa Barbara.

  I hadn’t discussed my meeting with Dembowski and Jankowitz with him, but knew he would ask so I had a cover story ready. “They just gave me what you could call a combination pep talk and warning that I need to up my game if I’m going to continue working in Section One.” I glanced at him and then looked away, unsure if my acting skills were up to par.

  Ted stuffed part of a muffin in his mouth and chewed. “They don’t seem to get it that the problem is our lieutenant.” He swallowed, then said, “I’ve still got a few contacts at the PAB. I think I need to have a talk with them about Conrad.”

  The PAB was the Police Administration Building, where all the administrators worked. I met his eyes again for a moment. “I appreciate that but why don’t you give it a few days and see how things go. I’ve got a feeling they know about some of our boss’s issues.

  He nodded and regarded me for a moment. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  I shrugged, a thin smile finding my lips. “Maybe you should just trust me on this and give it some time.”

  A little over an hour later, we pulled up in front of the Marisol Hotel that fronted the ocean in Montecito, an expensive area of sprawling estates just south of Santa Barbara. The once grand hotel was now behind a fence line with barbed wire, slated for demolition. I noticed there were several small cottages away from the main structure of the shuttered hotel. The bungalows fronted the ocean and would have afforded privacy for the occupants, at the same time allowing easy access to the water.

  We’d had Selfie and Molly make several phone calls yesterday. They’d managed to locate the hotel’s former manager, Madeline Jeffries, who promised to meet us here. Jeffries had mentioned that the hotel would be demolished and a new resort built on the site. As we waited and I walked Bernie along the road, I mentioned to Ted what Mo had said about Van Drake maybe meeting someone at the hotel.

  “He could have hooked up with someone after Shirley Welch left him and headed back to Hollywood,” Ted speculated.

  “Given his track record it wouldn’t be surprising.” Bernie tugged on the leash, leading me over to the fence. “I’m still not sure he had anything to do with Shirley’s death.”

  After a ten minute wait, we were met by the Mirasol’s former manager, who had a ring of keys, one that opened a small gate at the side of the hotel. Madeline Jeffries had short silver hair and looked to be in her late sixties, but she was thin and agile. I had the impression that she might have been an athlete at one time as she gave us a little history of the hotel.

  “The property was part of a Spanish land grant until it passed into the hands of Juan Francisco Delgado and his wife. They had a baby girl they named Mirasol and when they developed the hotel in the 1930’s, gave it her name. The property changed hands several times in recent years and went through a couple of major renovations. The latest redevelopment was slated for 2010, just after the economic downturn. Unfortunately, the investors walked because of money and permit problems, and the hotel never reopened. It’s slated for demotion next year.”

  Jeffries locked the gate behind us, then turned back and met our eyes, at the same time brushing a tear. “It’s a shame. There’ll never be another place like it.”

  Even though the hotel was abandoned and in disrepair, I understood what she meant. The Mirasol was a prime example of classic colonial Spanish architecture that had probably been spectacular during its era. It reminded me of a grander version of some of the older Spanish homes in the hills of Hollywood that had been lucky enough to survive a wrecking ball.

  We stood in the central courtyard, near what had once been the entrance to the hotel, as Ted explained why we were there. “An actor by the name of Russell Van Drake stayed here in June of 2009. He was with another actress, Shirley Welch, whose body was recently found in Hollywood. She was murdered about three years ago.”

  “Oh my, I had no idea,” Jeffries said, clearly shocked.

  “Any idea where a wealthy subject, who would have wanted to remain anonymous, might have stayed at the hotel?” I asked.

  Jeffries nodded. “Of course.”

  We walked through the grounds before she led us to the cottages at the perimeter of the hotel that I’d noticed earlier. Each of the small guest quarters had a stone patio overlooking the ocean. The dwellings weren’t fancy but suggested an earlier era of comfort and simplicity.

  Our guide pulled out her row of keys and, after a couple of tries, managed to get one of the cottages unlocked. As we stepped inside, she said, “It’s likely that Mr. Van Drake would have stayed in one of these rooms. As you can see, they all have a magnificent view of the ocean but they’re also very private.”

  Ted and I walked around the cottage. While it wasn’t as large or modern as the one where we’d found Scarlett Endicott’s body, it brought her murder to mind again. I wondered if Pearce Landon was still in Hollywood, hiding out, and still determined to find Scarlett’s killer.

  “It’s a lovely room,” I said after a few minutes and thanked her for showing us the cottage.

  We walked back toward the main grounds of the hotel where Ted said to Jeffries, “According to what we know, Shirley Welch left Mr. Van Drake at the hotel after spending a couple of nights with him. He stayed behind and was never seen again.”

  Jeffries’s nodded, her gray eyes surveying us. “I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “Would you have any guest records from that era?” I asked.

  We were just covering all the possibilities. If Van Drake had hooked up with someone after Shirley left we knew it was unlikely there would be any record of her separately registering at the hotel.

  Jeffries massaged her forehead and looked toward the ocean for a moment. She found our eyes again. “The registration logs would be…” She looked at the main entrance to the hotel. “They would likely still be here but they’re probably in written form. The registration system was never automated. I’d need to sort through some boxes and see what I can turn up.”

  I glanced at Ted, back at her. “That would be wonderful.”

  I told her the dates that we were interested in. “If you can scan the logs and send copies to our crime analyst, it would be a great help.” I gave her Selfie’s business card.

  After we said our goodbyes to Madeline Jeffries, I glanced across the roadway and saw the park that was adjacent to the hotel that Selfie had shown us when she’d mapped the area. It was still early and I didn’t see anyone there.

  I turned to Ted. “I’m going to let Bernie off his leash for a minute, give him a little exercise if you don’t mind.”

  Ted glanced down the road toward the town and then looked back at me. “I saw a coffee place on the way over here. Why don’t I go see if I can get us a couple of more cups while you two take your walk?”

  I smiled. “I’d be eternally grateful.”

  After Ted was gone, I walked Bernie toward the ocean side of the park and let him off his leash. My big dog did the tail wag and sniff as he explored the area. It was a small but beautiful park lined with eucalyptus trees, sage, and trumpet vines w
ith a path that led down to the water. Apparently Bernie thought he’d do little exploring, because he took off.

  “Bernie, BLIEB,” I yelled, giving him the German command to stay, as he headed down the path toward the ocean.

  It was useless. He quickly disappeared from sight. I ran after him, again calling out when I saw him on the sand. Bernie continued to ignore me until I finally reached him as he did a sniff and trot courting dance with a collie. I finally caught up to him a few feet from the water and clamped the leash on his collar.

  “What the hell were you thinking,” I said to him.

  “Sorry about that,” I heard a man saying from somewhere behind me.

  I turned as the man called his dog, Lucy, over to his side. The collie complied, giving him lots of tails wags and licking his face as he kneeled down to her.

  “Lucy’s still in training,” he said, finding my eyes. He stood up and offered me his hand. “I’m Jim.”

  I introduced myself and Bernie. I glanced down at my big dog and said, “I’ve given up on his training.”

  Lucy’s owner was probably in his forties with thinning brown hair. His face was tanned and there was something pleasant about his features.

  I noticed that he’d seen the badge on my dog’s collar and I felt compelled to explain. “I’m with LAPD. We’re checking on someone who was a guest at the Mirasol at one time who went missing.”

  We both turned toward the derelict hotel. I saw that the resort’s cottages could be seen from the beach. Each dwelling had its own steps that led down to the sand.

  “It’s a shame about the place,” he said. “The area hasn’t been the same since it closed down.”

  “You live nearby?”

  He motioned to a house that fronted the ocean. “It’s my little retreat from the city.”

  His “little retreat” was probably worth several million dollars. It was a white beach house with blue shutters and gardens. The home looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.