Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We took a marked police car with Hass at the wheel.

  “Step on it, Jethro,” Dawson yelled. “This ain’t no tractor. Hit the berries and cherries and make this thing scream like a girl.”

  Hass hit the lights and siren. I was in the backseat next to Barrett, behind Dawson. “What did you mean by copycat?” I asked as we bounded through an intersection and skidded around a corner. I held onto the armrest so that I wouldn’t end up in Barrett’s lap, sexually assaulted.

  Dawson turned his big head toward me. “The professor’s theory about the killer’s cycle and latency period changing was a load of shit. Susan Wellington was taken several hours earlier than all the other victims. She was also abducted from a church, not her home. None of it fits with The Artist. Our girl’s the victim of a copycat.”

  Hass looked over at Dawson as we bounced down the highway. “You mean we’re not dealing with The Artist?” Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance over the blare of the siren.

  “Hell yes, son, just not on this particular crime. The Artist is methodical, precise. He never varies his schedule. Whacko Picasso’s got a girl, but that crime would have occurred just a few hours ago. The guy we’re dealing with has been at work for almost a full day.” He motioned to the highway. “Get your foot off the fucking brake.”

  “What about the letter to the newspaper?” I asked as Hass hit the gas and we were jerked back in our seats. “It looks like all the others he’s sent.”

  “I look like Paul Newman. Doesn’t mean I’m a movie star.”

  I almost laughed out loud when Hass said, “He’s dead.”

  “So are you unless you shut the fuck up and learn to drive.”

  As we barreled down the highway, I thought about what Dawson had said. If he was right, it meant that we had more time to catch The Artist, but it also meant something had been missed.

  “We need to check with the newspapers,” I said, leaning forward so that Dawson could hear me over the siren. “If this guy’s a copycat, there’s got to be another letter somewhere.”

  My partner turned to Hass and Barrett, barking out commands. “Get on the horn and contact every god damned fly swatter, fish wrapper, and ass wiper within fifty miles of this cow town.” It started to rain, the droplets coming down in big wet drops. Hass hit the wipers. “I want that other letter worse than a piss in a rainstorm.”

  The rain didn’t let up. It was coming down in buckets with lots of thunder as we skidded to a stop in the parking lot of the New Life Church and bolted from the car. “You guys check with the store on the corner,” Dawson yelled to Barrett and me before running through the parking lot. “Farm boy and me got the gas station.”

  We found a young woman working at the liquor store on the corner of the strip mall, less than a hundred yards from the church. I flashed my badge, wiped the sheen of water from my face with the sleeve of my sweater, and pointed to the CCTV camera on the light pole in the parking lot. “Your security system. I need to see the video feed.”

  The girl’s voice was anxious. “We don’t sell to minors no more. We learned our lesson.”

  I raised my voice, realizing that I probably sounded a little like my new partner. “Your recorder and monitor—where the hell are they?”

  She jumped up like she’d been hit by lightning and led us to a backroom where we found the monitor. It was above a VCR deck that looked like something left over from the nineties. I fumbled with it for a minute before Barrett said, “My grandmother’s still got one of these. Let me give it a try.”

  Five minutes later he had the video tape with the date and approximate time of Susan Wellington’s abduction from the church parking lot on the screen. Barrett fast forwarded the tape until we saw a dark blue van pull up and stop near the church. In the distance there was a girl coming across the lot that I recognized as Wellington from her photograph. A man in a brown hoodie walked up and took her by the arm. We were unable to make out his features because of the distance from the camera. Seconds later the girl was pushed into the van before it sped away.

  “I didn’t see a plate,” Barrett said, glancing over at me. “Bad camera angle.”

  “Shit,” I said, turning and seeing that Dawson and Haas had rushed into the store and were at my side.

  “No time for a shit, Sexton,” Dawson said. “The idiot stopped for gas before driving into the church parking lot. We ran his plate and just got a name. Let’s roll.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “The plate came back to a Ronald Jackson,” Joe Dawson said as Haas drove like a mad man through the pouring rain to the address the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety had on file. We left the main highway and minutes later were on the outskirts of town, in a sparsely populated, poorer residential area.

  Dawson turned to Hass before we rolled up the street toward a dilapidated house. “Kill the lights and noise, son.”

  “Jackson’s an assistant to the youth minister for New Life,” Jim Barrett announced after ending a phone call. “He’s on probation for a DUI, some minor traffic infractions. Looks like he lives with his parents.”

  “How do you want to play this,” I asked Dawson as we pulled to the curb up the street from the house. The rain had finally let up. I saw what looked like a couple of broken down cars in the driveway.

  “No time to make nice with the fuckstick’s parents. You and Barrett go ‘round back and wait for our signal. I’m going in the front door behind the dozer.”

  “You can’t just bust in there without a warrant.”

  Dawson turned in his seat, his pale blue eyes finding me. “You wanna wait around for paper while Ronald cuts out Susan’s eyes, uses her for a hood ornament?”

  I shook my head. “Let’s go.”

  Five minutes later, Barrett and I were in the backyard with our guns out. Hass was on the phone to Barrett who gave us the go signal. We tried the back door, found it was locked, and Barrett kicked it in.

  “Everyone on the ground, NOW!” I yelled. Barrett and I swept the darkened kitchen and adjacent family room with our guns. A teenage girl who had been watching TV screamed but then got on the floor. I looked over and saw that Dawson and Hass had a couple of people proned-out on the living room floor, probably Jackson’s parents.

  “What the fuck’s going on here,” the man yelled as Dawson jammed his gun barrel into the back of his head. His wife was on the floor next to him, whimpering.

  “Where’s Ronald.” When he didn’t get a response Dawson flipped the long-haired man over and shoved the barrel of his gun up underneath his chin. “I’m only gonna ask you one more time, then I’m taking you and the rest of this duck dynasty out back and feed you to whatever lives in the swamp.”

  “The ba…basement,” the man stammered. “He’s been d…down there m…most of the day.”

  “Barrett, in here,” Dawson yelled after I brought the girl into the living room to join her parents. The youthful cop had finished sweeping the rest of the house, finding it empty. As he came into the living room Dawson went on, “Sexton you’re with me.” He turned to the Tulsa cops. “You two make sure these three stay put. They try anything stupid, lower their IQ to a negative number.”

  I followed Dawson into the hallway where there was a closed door leading down into the basement. He turned the knob, found it was locked, then kicked it open and yelled, “Ronald this is the FBI. We have your house surrounded. You need to come up here with your hands up. NOW.”

  There was no response. I smelled marijuana smoke drifting up the stairway. Dawson gave his command again without getting a response. He then turned to me. “Cover my ass but try not to make me a quadriplegic, Buttercup. This ain’t Hollywood.”

  Before I could respond he turned and moved down the stairway. There was a dim glow in the room somewhere below us. I had visions of finding Susan Wellington either dead or in some horrific state of torture. When he reached the bottom step my partner found another light switch and the room lit
up.

  “Hands in the air, asshole,” Dawson yelled as we came around the corner into the room.

  I saw there was a young man sitting at a desk smoking marijuana, his face illuminated by the glow of a video game he was playing. He had ear buds and apparently hadn’t heard Dawson’s command.

  My partner went over and ripped Ronald Jackson out of his chair. He got the young man on the floor and placed his FBI issued Glock up to our suspect’s mouth. “Where is the girl?” He didn’t get a response. “Talk to me or I’ll use your ugly pie hole for a holster.”

  “What’s…going…on,” Jackson finally stammered. The young man looked like he was in his early twenties. He also looked like he was about to pee his pants. “What…g…girl?”

  “Susan Wellington,” I said. “We know you took her. Where is she?”

  “Wha…what are you t…talking about?”

  Dawson put the barrel of his gun into our suspect’s mouth. “We have video of your van parking in front of the church, the girl being taken. Unless you want a thirty caliber root canal tell me where she is. NOW.”

  “Wha…wa…no…” The kid couldn’t talk. Dawson pulled the gun back. Our suspect stammered, “My c…cou..sin…uses the…van.”

  Dawson looked at me, then pulled Jackson up to his feet and said, “Where does he live?”

  “I’m not s…sure. He just got out of p…prison a couple of months ago.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Five minutes later we were on Route 44 headed for a shack outside the town of Claremore, lights on, siren blaring.

  “The kid’s cousin is Geoff Glover,” Barrett said after making a call. “He’s got a record for sexual assault, spent time in the state pen.”

  “He has to be our guy,” I said.

  The air had become heavy again. A few drops were beginning to fall as Hass slowed down and found a dirt road off the main highway.

  A mile up the road Dawson motioned to a mobile home beyond a locked gate that had a confederate flag on the porch. “Dirt Bag Holler at one-eighty.”

  We stopped in front of the gate and Hass turned to Dawson. “What now?”

  “FIDO,” Dawson said. The big cop gave him a blank stare. “Fuck it, drive on.”

  Hass backed up and took a run at the gate. We carried half of it with us as we barreled down the dirt driveway. As soon as we pulled up in front of the trailer a man with long hair came out onto the porch. He was carrying an assault rifle.

  “He’s got a gun,” I screamed.

  Bullets flew as Hass spun the car around in the dirt and hit some trash cans.

  “Get out,” Dawson yelled. “Stay behind the car. Use the engine block for over.”

  The rain came harder at the same time a hail of bullets flew all around us, making it impossible to return the fire. I waited until the firing stopped before taking a chance and glancing back at the trailer. I saw the man tossing the assault rifle and begin running into the woods.

  “Let’s go, kids,” Dawson yelled.

  “What about the girl, the trailer?” I asked.

  “We send the pecker head to hell first.”

  We followed our suspect’s trail into the forest as the sky opened up. A couple of hundred yards into the woods the gunfire erupted again. This time it sounded like it was coming from a handgun, but was muffled by the river of water bursting from the sky. I heard a scream and turned in time to see Jim Barrett falling to the ground.

  “I’m hit,” Barrett screamed, the rain coming so hard now that it almost drowned out what the youthful detective had said.

  Dawson came over and bent down to the wounded cop, examining him. “Don’t worry, son, you should pull through. He just blew your nuts off.” Barrett screamed again, this time loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain. “Just kidding, cowboy. Looks like it went through your leg. Suck it up.” He turned back in the direction of the shooter, moving off again.

  After using my sweater as a tourniquet I left Barrett on the trail and caught up with Hass and Dawson. The rain was coming so hard now that I had trouble seeing anything ahead of us. Then I saw movement off to the left in an area of heavy brush. Seconds later, the shadowy figure of our suspect came out from behind a tree, firing his gun.

  Dawson returned the fire. By the time I came around Hass and saw what had happened Geoff Glover was on the ground, bleeding. Dawson went over and kicked his handgun away. He bent down to the felon’s narrow pockmarked face and said, “Does it hurt, asshole?”

  “Go to hell,” Glover mumbled.

  “Sorry, you just took my reservation.” Dawson stood up, turned away from the suspect, then turned back to him and kicked him in the face.”

  “What’s do you think you’re doing?” I asked, coming over to his side.

  “CPR.” He turned to Hass. “Stay here until he assumes room temperature. We’re gonna check on the girl.”

  We made our way through the thunderstorm back to the trailer and went inside with our guns drawn. The place was littered with trash, beer cans, and drugs.

  “He’s a chef,” Dawson said, motioning to the crude meth lab that had been set up in the kitchen. The smell of ammonia hit me as I mopped the water off my brow and examined the glass beakers, duct tape, and containers of acetone. We then heard a muffled cry coming from the bedroom. I motioned to the hallway and followed Dawson. We stopped at a bedroom door as the cries continued.

  Dawson pushed the door open and we went in with our guns at the ready. We found Susan Wellington naked, gagged, and chained to a table. It looked like our wannabe artist had begun preparing his victim for his own version of The Artist’s exhibition. Her face was covered with paint. There was a knife on the table beside her, a bucket on the floor.

  I untied our victim and she fell into my arms, sobbing hysterically.

  I looked up at Dawson who for the first time since I’d known him had a smile on his face. “Good work,” he said to me. “Now let’s go catch The Artist.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The night is still damp from the rain. The Artist’s footfalls splash through the puddles as he walks. He’s anonymous now, giving anyone who passes by the appearance of an ordinary young man out for an evening stroll. A smile slips across his face when he thinks about how easy it is to hide in plain sight. It’s something he’s been doing his entire life.

  In the distance he sees the building. The parking lot has only a scattering of cars. Most of the visitors to the museum have already gone home. He has an hour before closing time to select the location. And just like in real estate, location is everything.

  After paying the admission fee and entering the building he glances over seeing that the security guard has a small television. A news reporter is talking about The Artist being killed by the FBI in a shootout and a girl being freed.

  “Did they catch him?” he asks the security guard.

  The man nods. “The bastard finally got what he had coming.”

  The Artist walks away with a grin. Do they really believe he could have been caught so easily? Idiots. Soon they will know they have it all wrong.

  As his footsteps echo down the corridor into the museum, he remembers seeing the press coverage about the letter the newspaper received. It was a forgery, of course, copied from the text he’d sent in other letters. The other letter, the real letter, has been left for the editor of a small newspaper. If the FBI learns about that letter they will know that the man they killed was a copycat. They will also know that once the current exhibition is finished only two maidens will be left before the masterpiece is complete.

  “This exhibit is still under construction,” a female security guard says after The Artist walks past the yellow tape and down an empty corridor. He turns, seeing that the guard is young, not much older than the girl he has awaiting her transformation. “It won’t open until tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, smiling and walking back to her. “I’m a student of the masters and…” He sighs. “It’s just to
o bad. I came all the way from Kansas City to see the exhibit. I guess my entire trip has been a waste of time.”

  She gives him a nod of understanding. “Where are you studying?”

  “The state university. I hope to get a degree in the fine arts one of these days, maybe teach.” He motions to the display up ahead. “Who knows, I might end up working at a place like this someday.” He finds her eyes again, his smile broadening. “Maybe we’ll even end up working together one of these days.”

  The young woman nods her head toward the closed exhibit. “Go ahead. Take your time. There’s nobody here until tomorrow night anyway.” She smiles, brushes a hand through her dark hair. “I get off at nine.”

  The Artist moves closer, takes her hand. “Thank you so much…” He reads her name tag. “Jen.”

  The guard blushes. “You’re welcome.”

  After walking down the corridor The Artist stops in a large display area with a soaring ceiling. The museum’s exhibition of the masters includes paintings borrowed from other museums and private collections from around the country, even a few from Europe. As he walks around the exhibit, studying the work of the artists, his body tingles with excitement. Tomorrow another display will be added to the exhibit before it opens.

  Darcy Tate will be on exhibition. Her body will be a rare work of art—the highlight of the exhibit.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Geoff Glover died of his gunshot wounds in the hospital about an hour ago,” I said to Joe Dawson over an early dinner.

  Our victim, Susan Wellington, had been given medical treatment and reunited with her parents. I’d called for an ambulance, both to treat Susan and to cover our asses in the reports I knew that we would have to write about the shooting.