Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  He was kidding. Edna knew that Jessica and I were mortal enemies. “I’d sooner jump into a pit of flaming dog shit.”

  “There’s a stack of reports in the interview room that need to be organized and filed. I think Williams also said something about a training session scheduled for this afternoon. You can check with him and see what’s up.”

  After leaving Edna’s office I called Lieutenant Williams at the department’s Metropolitan Division who ran the canine training program. He told me that an arrest, search, and seizure refresher course was scheduled for that afternoon and that Bernie and I were welcome. Even though I was exhausted I knew that Bernie could use the work and told him we’d be there.

  I spent the morning organizing the reports that Edna said needed to be filed with R&I, the department’s Records and Information Division in downtown Los Angeles. As I was preparing to leave Jessica Barlow slithered up, flicked her forked tongue out, and asked me where I’d been for the past several days. Jessica had filed complaints against Charlie and me recently, claiming that she was the victim of a hostile work environment. The charge hadn’t gone anywhere because her personality was on a par with something that rattled and slithered.

  “I was just doing a little assignment with the feds,” I said, glancing up at the serpent. She looked tired and a bit heavier than when I’d last seen her. Maybe she’d swallowed a rat that she was still digesting.

  “What the hell happened to your hair?”

  I set my stack of reports down, breathed. “Just a new style I’m trying out.”

  “It’s awful. You look like a boy.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, I’d have asked for it.” I went back to my paperwork.

  “I heard about the elevator incident.”

  I looked up. “Yes, the shooter was at the hotel and…”

  “I’m not talking about the shooting.” She had her hands on her hips. I turned away, ignoring her and gathering up the reports again. She went on, “You and Bautista were playing some kind of sex game in the elevator.”

  I gave her my best stink eye, at the same time wondering if word had gotten around because Daddy Charlie had opened his big mouth about my bet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about unprofessional conduct.”

  I was in no mood for her pettiness. “You should be an expert on that.” I gathered up my purse, the reports, and Bernie’s leash. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “I’m going to report it,” she said after I turned to leave.

  I turned back at her. “I’m sorry, Jessica. I’m a little off my game at the moment. I just can’t think of an insult that’s stupid enough for you to understand.”

  ***

  On the way to the R&I Division, Bernie and I stopped by Joe Schmoe’s coffee shop on La Brea. I ordered a latte from a barista named Tony who had served me a couple of times in the past. The middle-aged server pointed at my big dog and said, “I have something for Bernie.”

  “It’s okay, he doesn’t eat junk food,” I lied.

  Tony reached under the counter and brought out a rawhide chew. He smiled and handed it to me. “I bought a couple of these for my dog and remembered that you and Bernie come by here a lot.”

  “How nice.” I handed the chew to Bernie, said thank-you, and walked away.

  Maybe it was the caffeine or the barista’s random act of kindness, but I felt my fatigue and spirits finally beginning to lift.

  When I got to the police administration building I parked Olive in the parking structure. Olive is a dark green Ford Escort that rolled off the assembly line sometime before there was the Internet or cell phones. She’s all I could afford after my ex ruined my credit before our divorce.

  I hurried inside police headquarters, watching my surroundings for any sign of Ryan Cooper. It occurred to me that it might always be like this—me looking over my shoulder for my father’s killer.

  While I was filing my reports, I happened to run into Wilma Bibby. The records clerk used to date Charlie but they’d broken up a few months ago. I’d heard that she’d gone back to an old boyfriend. Wilma had recently made herself over in an attempt to look younger and trendy. Not to be petty, but the makeover was a failure thanks to short, spiked red hair, too much eyeliner, and outfits like something out of Clown World.

  After chatting for a moment, something occurred to me. “Wilma, I’m working on an old case involving some murders that started in Hollywood back in 2004. I’m wondering if you could pull the original reports for me.” I gave her Joanne Vreeland’s name, the first victim of The Artist, and waited with Bernie until she came back a few minutes later.

  She handed me a flash drive. “We’ve scanned all the older reports to save space. If you want the originals, I’ll need to make a request and have them sent over from the warehouse. It will probably take a day or two.”

  I held up the storage device. “This should work. If I need the paper I’ll give you a call.”

  As I was leaving she called after me. “How’s Charlie?”

  I came back to the counter. “He’s doing okay, talking about retiring. I think that’s probably a good thing considering his health.”

  Wilma nodded, leaned closer to me, and lowered her voice. “Could you tell him something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just tell him that I miss the games.” Her gaze fell away from me and her face reddened.

  “The games?”

  She nodded, her eyes darting up to me for a second before moving away again. “He’ll understand.”

  Games. I considered Wilma’s comment as I drove with Bernie to our training session. Maybe she was talking about Scrabble or Monopoly. Then I remembered. My partner had recently been on the Internet to “update” his sexual knowledge. Maybe it was just my fatigue but the image of Charlie and Wilma dressed in bondage outfits and whipping one another came to mind and I burst out laughing.

  Bernie and I had a busy afternoon, practicing search techniques, the associated commands, and hand signals. My big dog loved the training and, as always, I rewarded him with some of his favorite doggy snaps.

  During the session I’d made the mistake of telling one of the other officers I was exhausted and accepted an energy drink he’d offered. Maybe it was both my earlier latte and the drink but it made me feel like I was on amphetamines. When I got home I was edgy and a little too animated. Maybe it also had something to do with what was happening with my roommates.

  “Are you sure about this?” I said to Natalie as she modelled a purple and black mesh wedding gown in the family room.

  “You forget, I was hitched to old Clyde before he croaked, so wearing white is outta the question.” She did a couple of twirls as Bernie barked his apparent approval. The outfit looked like something that might be appropriate for a movie called, Four Weddings and a Porn Star. The floor length gown was partially see-through, leaving little to the imagination, including Natalie’s perfect assets. She beamed a smile at me and added, “Always had me a thing for purple and black, and this a Wanger.”

  “A what?”

  “A Vidal Wanger.”

  I was still drawing a blank when Mo said, “He’s a designer for all the celebs, Kate. You really don’t get out much, do you?”

  I shrugged, wanting to say it looked more like it was designed to impress a wanger. A moment later my thoughts about see through dresses and wangers disappeared faster than you can say, Nana and Prissy.

  “Bridesmaids on parade,” Nana announced, coming down the stairway with Prissy behind her.

  I turned and saw that the duo was dressed in outfits that looked like they were made for the movie, Bridesmaids of Frankenstein. Nana and her two foot taller great grandson were swathed in black and white material that was so tight it made them look like someone had trapped them in spandex and turned them into human tourniquets.

  Nana came over to us, looked down at her skin tight outfit, and said, “It’s a good thing I had the gi
rls plumped up.”

  I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Laverne and Shirley were probably suffering spandex suffocation.

  “I’m feeling kind of pretty,” Prissy said, doing a little pirouette.

  If this was pretty I needed therapy or medication or both. I turned to Natalie, trying to be diplomatic. “I don’t think that outfit will work for me—it’s a little too tight.”

  “You do look like you’ve put on some weight,” Mo said, coming over to me. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

  “What? No, and I haven’t gain weight.” I looked down at myself, now feeling bloated.

  “It don’t matter what you wear anyway,” Mo said. “Weddings ain’t nuthin but a pre-divorce party.”

  “Now don’t be a negative ninny,” Nana said to her. “That’s usually Kate’s role.”

  I started to take offense when Natalie said, “If you’re worried about your weight, Kate, why don’t you come with Mo and me. We’re goin’ to a little exercise class tonight. It’ll help you wind down, de-stress.”

  “Yeah,” Mo agreed. “I think the class might help you out in more ways than one.”

  “I wanna go, too,” Nana said, overhearing our conversation. “I could use the training.”

  “Training?” I said, looking from her to Natalie and Mo.

  “This class is too strenuous for a woman your age,” Mo said to Nana. She grabbed my purse from the counter. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late.”

  ***

  I made excuses about not going to the class, thinking I should stay home and read the murder file on Joanne Vreeland, but my friends insisted that I go with them. And the truth was I welcomed the break from the case. I was still having flashbacks, remembering what The Artist had done to Darcy Tate, and needed to distance myself from everything. Five minutes into the exercise class I forgot all about the killer—at least temporarily.

  There were about a dozen women in our class as we lined up in front of our instructor, Veronica Jupiter. We were in a community college gymnasium. I noticed that for some reason Veronica had gone over and locked the door before beginning the workout.

  “Just so everyone is sure they’re in the right place,” Veronica said, “you’re in HC101.”

  My brows knitted together. I turned to Natalie who was standing beside me with Mo, “What’s HC stand for? Are you sure we’re where we belong?”

  Natalie grinned. “Not to worry, this is the right class.”

  My eyes grew almost as large as the planet Veronica was named for when the instructor came over to me and explained, “You’re in Honeymoon Conditioning 101.” There was polite laughter from the other women who must have seen my shock.

  “Just relax and enjoy it, Kate,” Natalie said. “I’m sure Jack’s gonna be real happy with the results.”

  “Yeah,” Mo said. “After you tighten things up down there, he might even realize that you’ve had a couple of screws loose all these years.”

  “I’m not…” I stopped myself in mid-sentence, realizing what I was trying to defend.

  “Silence,” Veronica said.

  Our mild mannered instructor’s personality abruptly transformed into something akin to a marine corps drill instructor. Veronica Jupiter became the vagina ninja, screaming, yelling, cajoling, and ridiculing anyone who failed to perform her exercises correctly.

  “Your husbands and boyfriends are going to think your pussy’s are on steroids when I’m through with you,” she announced. “I’m going to make your vaginas tighter than a BB in a beaver’s butt.”

  I grimaced and turned to Mo. “Now there’s a visual.”

  “Hope we don’t overdo this,” Mo said, apparently also worried. “Larry’s got a pretty big gun holding his BB’s.”

  We spent the next hour doing a series of pelvic exercises that were both grueling and exhausting. A couple of the women looked like they might faint. I finally took a break, finding a chair where I slumped down and sipped some water. It felt like my “lower extremity” muscles were on fire.

  Mo came over and must have seen my exhaustion. “Just so you know, if you pass out I ain’t gonna perform CPR on your vagina.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said, at the same time wishing that I had an ice pack.

  “I don’t know about you two, but I think my kitty cat’s gonna purr tonight,” Natalie said, after walking over to us.

  I huffed out a breath. “My kitty feels like someone stepped on its tail.”

  “Maybe Kate’s getting’ old,” Natalie suggested to Mo.

  “Yeah,” Mo agreed, chuckling. “Who knows? Before the night’s over, her pussy might even qualify for Medicare.”

  “Get off your lazy broilers,” Veronica yelled over at us. “We’ve got more work to do.”

  The ninja took Natalie and Mo to the front of the class and had them demonstrate something she called the Muffin Master and the Biscuit Whisker. She told us the exercises were like engaging in an Olympic workout for the vagina.

  I’d moved to the back of the class, hoping Veronica wouldn’t call on me when she was finished with my friends. It didn’t work. “I’ve saved the snizzler just for you,” she announced, coming over and pulling me up to the front of the class.

  “Sorry, but I think my snizzler’s had enough for one night.” I started to walk away.

  She took my arm, pulling me back. “Sorry but no one leaves here without doing the snizzler.”

  What followed can only be described as abject humiliation as my snizzler was forced to engage in unnatural acts involving pelvic thrusts for the entertainment of Natalie, Mo, and the rest of the class. The movement consisted of me lying on my back and lifting my “love pudding” as the vagina ninja called it, upward as I simultaneously pretended I was, also in the words of the ninja, “trying to rip someone’s Willy in half.”

  When it was finally over I dragged myself and my snizzler out of class. As I drove Natalie and Mo home I groaned and said, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.” I wasn’t kidding. It felt like every muscle from my abdomen to my thighs had been pulled.

  “Snap out of it, Kate,” Mo said, laughing at me from the backseat. “You’re acting like you’ve got a hatchet wound or something.”

  “Maybe Kate busted her broiler,” Natalie suggested. “I think we should call the paramedics, see if they can put her vagina in a sling.”

  It went on like that, me suffering vagina insults all the way home. After I walked through the door I managed to drag myself down the hallway toward my bedroom with Bernie following.

  “What’s wrong with Kate?” I heard Tex ask Natalie from behind me.

  “It’s nuthin’ to worry about,” Natalie cooed. “Kate’s love cave just went into hibernation.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Unfortunately for me, Natalie’s love cave hadn’t also gone into hibernation. She and Tex spent most of the night in their bedroom screaming delight over what Veronica Jupiter had created. Apparently Natalie was in better shape than me or she’d done the vagina ninja exercises differently or maybe I really did need Medicare.

  On my way out the door the next morning Mo told my roommates that my problem was I had a flabby vagina. I slammed the door to a chorus of laughter.

  When Bernie and I got to the station I settled in at my desk slowly, being careful not to strain anything further. Even though I took my time I ended up groaning out loud when I sat down, something that Jessica Barlow heard as she walked by.

  “Have a little gas this morning?” she asked, stopping at my desk.

  My lack of sleep and physical condition had left me with no patience. “Mind your own business.”

  She put her hands on her hips, fixing her heavily shadowed eyes on me. “Speaking of gas, I heard that fat bozo partner of yours is planning on retiring.”

  I stood up, winced, and walked over to her. “I guess it’s really no surprise that you’re an expert on methane and clowns. I’m only going to say this one more tim
e, go away and leave me alone.”

  Jessica slithered off, saying something about me not having a sense of humor. Edna must have heard the commotion and came out of his office.

  “Are you two going to come to blows?”

  I moved a stack of papers on my desk, forgot about my condition, and said, “Ouch.” I looked up at the lieutenant. “Not if I can help it. She goes out of her way to look for trouble.”

  “Just try to avoid her.” He regarded me for a moment. “You okay?”

  I frowned. “Just pulled something in an exercise class.” My gaze moved away from him, maybe in embarrassment.

  “I’ve got more reports that need to be filed if you’re up to it.”

  I met his eyes again. “Actually, I was wondering if I could take a break from the filing. I’ve got a murder file to review on that case I’ve been working on with the feds. The first victim was from Hollywood. I might also try and talk to her parents if they’re still around.”

  “Suit yourself. The paper mountain isn’t going anywhere.”

  I spent the morning pouring over the electronic file on the case that I’d gotten from R&I. I learned that Joanne Vreeland, age seventeen, had been taken from her home on the night of July 9th, 2004, the day after she returned from a summer trip she took to Italy with her high school classmates. Her parents were sleeping in the adjacent bedroom and hadn’t heard a sound during the abduction. Joanne’s body was found several hours later in the hills above the Hollywood Bowl. A letter, almost identical to The Artist’s other letters, had been sent to the Herald-Press, the local newspaper in Los Angeles. The missive had been turned over to the police without being published.

  The crime scene photographs brought back the horrors of what I’d seen in the mine on the McCray ranch and in the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. The Artists’ first victim was wearing the familiar flowing white gown. She’d suffered the same injuries and cause of death as the other victims.

  I took some time, comparing notes from the first case with the other victims, focusing on the gowns the girls all had in common. The FBI had been unable to establish a manufacturer for the dresses because the labels had all been removed. A couple of their profilers had speculated the gowns had been made overseas. There was nothing remarkable about the victims’ undergarments. They were common to what was sold in most department stores.