Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  Dawson leaned in closer to her. “Yeah, I’m his god-damned P.O., which means I’m pissed off. You’ve got five seconds to tell me where he is or I’m taking you to jail and confiscating every ounce of crank in this anus armory.”

  It was probably the fear of having her drugs confiscated, rather than losing her apparent boyfriend, that made her talk. “Al works over at Deke’s on the avenue…sometimes. He might be there.”

  “What’s Dekes?” I asked.

  “They sell paint and stuff.”

  “As in paints an artist would use?”

  “Yeah. I’ve only been there once but I think so.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later we found Dekes Art Supply on Bridle Avenue. We stood on the sidewalk down the block from the store, planning how to handle the situation.

  “You two cover the street,” Dawson said to Haas and Reed. “If the crackerjack runs, use your Micky-D tactical training.”

  “What’s that?” Reed said.

  Dawson poked the hefty cop in his stomach. “Use the Big Mac Attack—you know the drill.”

  Reed scratched his head. “What are you talking about?”

  The FBI agent’s eyes narrowed on him. “You just used up your quota of DFQ’s for the day, Marcie.”

  “My what?”

  “Dumb Fucking Questions.” Dawson raised his voice, his irritation obvious. “For Christ sakes, just block him with your big gut then whack him in the nuts.” He walked away shaking his head.

  When we got inside the store, Dawson and I browsed along an aisle hoping to recognize Martin from the photo we had from his driver’s license. After a few minutes a clerk came over, asking if he could help. Dawson badged him, pulled him away from the other customers. “Al Martin. Where is he?”

  As Charlie might have said, the clerk looked like he was ready to drop a log. “He’s…stocking shelves…in the ba…ack.”

  I followed Dawson through a door into a storage room behind the counter. We both turned and saw Martin at the same time he saw us. He threw a box in our direction and made a dash for the delivery exit. We followed him out into the alley where it turned and came back up the street. By the time we got to the street we saw that Reed and Haas had exercised the tactical maneuver Dawson had suggested. Al Martin was on the ground, handcuffed and writhing in pain.

  “Get to your feet, Alice,” Dawson said, pulling him up. Our suspect was about six feet tall and rail thin. Something about his long hair and being all arms and legs reminded me of Prissy.

  “Tell us where the girl is?” Dawson demanded, grabbing the front of his shirt.

  “What girl? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  We were running out of time and I was out of patience. I came closer to Martin, leaned in. “In the summer of 2004 you took a trip to Italy with Jason McCray. Since that trip girls from across the country have gone missing. Several of them ended up murdered and in a cave on McCray’s ranch. You helped him in the killing spree. Another girl was taken last night.”

  Martin’s eyes were wide but his pock-marked face hardened. “You’re crazy. I want a lawyer.”

  “No problem,” Dawson said. “We’ll even drive you.” He tossed the handcuffed tweaker into the back seat of our car and told Haas and Reed we’d be back in a few minutes.

  We drove a couple of miles until we got to an empty field near a river. Dawson pulled off the road, then pulled Martin out of the car, and removed his belt. In a few moments he had the meth-head tied around the feet and was pushing him toward a deep gorge that overlooked the downtown skyline.

  Dawson pointed to the city on the other side of the drop off. “Why did the lawyer cross the road?”

  Martin stared at him, dumbfounded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Wrong answer, Alice.” Dawson pushed him toward the gorge. “The answer is, so that he could sue everyone at the accident scene.” Dawson pointed to the city in the distance. “Your lawyer is right over there, dumbfuck. He’s a member of the law firm, Wee, Suck, and Howe. You are an accident about to happen, Alice. Your attorney should be here any minute.” Dawson grinned at Martin, moved him closer to the abyss.

  “You’re fucking crazy, man,” Martin yelled, stumbling along the edge of the cliff.

  I’d had enough of Dawson’s tactics, deciding that I had to act before things got further out of control. I knew we might even be wasting our time, focusing on the wrong suspect, but we had no choice but to bluff and see where it led.

  I said to Martin, “Where is the girl?”

  “What girl? I don’t know…”

  “Enough. We know about your meth arrests, about McCray’s relationship with you, and about the killings.” I pointed to the drop off. “You said my partner’s crazy. You’re right. You’ve got five seconds to talk to us before you see how crazy he really is.”

  “You guys have been smoking crack,” Martin yelled, the pitch in his voice rising. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Dawson pushed Martin to the edge of the drop off. A few rocks fell into the deep gorge. Our suspect screamed, begged for Dawson to stop.

  “Last chance,” I said to Martin, holding Dawson back.

  Dawson pushed my arm away, looked at me. “We’re out of time. We do this my way.”

  “No.” I held on his eyes for a moment, turned back to Martin. “Tell us about the girl, NOW.”

  Martin began crying, Dawson gave him another shove, and he teetered on the edge. I held onto him as he lost his balance and screamed, “All right, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “We’re listening, Alice,” Dawson said. “Tell us about the girl or I drop you on your head, see if there’s anything in there.”

  I pulled Martin back a few inches. He lowered his head, wiping the snot on his shirt, and composing himself. “Okay, McCray and I roomed together on the trip. That pervert Lofton was always after him.”

  “The teacher.”

  “Yeah. He hit on him a bunch of times. I think maybe they even hooked up. After the trip McCray came by my house a couple of times and met my little brother. They had a thing going and hung out together, but I swear I don’t know nothing about a girl being taken.”

  I looked over at Dawson, back at Martin. “What do you mean they had a thing going?”

  “My brother and McCray hooked up before I moved away. I’ve only seen them a couple of times since then. The little shit came by with him and borrowed my car about a year ago. They never returned it.”

  “What’s your brother’s name?” I asked, now realizing that Jason McCray and Al Martin’s brother were gay and must have been in a relationship.

  “Jimmy or James but he doesn’t go by that name anymore.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s a shemale. The last time I saw him he was wearing a fucking dress and went by the name Loretta.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  After we hauled Al Martin back to the car, I removed his handcuffs and asked him for a description of his brother. He fumbled with his wallet, finally pulling out a photograph and jabbing it at me. “It was taken about five years ago before he became a freak.”

  I scanned the photo, my head snapping back in disbelief, the name Loretta Martin suddenly registering. “Damn it. He’s been right in front of us the whole time.”

  Dawson leaned over, taking in the photograph. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The flight attendant on the chartered jet your agency uses is Loretta Martin.” I looked at the photo again, exhaling in frustration. “I talked to her on the flight to Tulsa yesterday. She said something about getting married and leaving her job soon.” My eyes narrowed on Dawson, a thought surfacing. “Maybe he or she doesn’t know that McCray’s dead.” A final glance back at the photo erased any doubts I had. “Whatever’s going on, all I know for sure is that he dresses like a woman and is James Martin.”

  “Told ya,” Al Martin snorted. “My brother’s a fucking fea
kazoid.”

  Dawson gave him a dismissive sneer. “So are you, Alice. Stay put. I’ll send the locals to pick you up so we can get a formal statement from you and your lawyer.”

  We scrambled into the car and Dawson jammed down on the gas pedal, leaving Al Martin in a cloud us dust. I heard the meth-head yelling at us, “You can’t leave me out here.”

  We then picked up Hass and Reed and headed for the airport. I made some calls as Dawson drove.

  When I got off the phone I said, “According to the employment records for Skyway Air, the charter company the FBI uses, Loretta Martin uses a post office box in Tulsa. They think she lives somewhere in the area and might have some older records in their system with a physical address.”

  We got to the airport and I checked my watch as dusk settled in around us. I then turned to Dawson, borrowing a line from him. “Better tell our pilot to get his foot off the break, Joe. We’re cutting it close.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The maiden sleeps, the drugs making her breath shallow and ragged. The painted, horned creature that works over her carefully applies the paint in thin coats before layering on the heavier textures. When he’s finally satisfied he takes a step back. Patty Shay has been transformed. The rather plain girl, who studied music and dance, looks like she’s stepped across a barrier in time, right out of a de Gaul painting.

  “The gown and shoes, now.” Ellian’s voice is brittle. It rattles in his ears, empty of emotion.

  The Artist jumps at the command and complies, his thoughts focusing on what lies ahead. One more girl after this one and he will be finished, the recreation complete. Maybe then he and Jason can rest, be at peace.

  Jason.

  His mind lingers, remembering his touch, his caress, the tenderness they shared. His beloved...

  “Focus on what needs to be done,” Ellian commands. “Time is growing short. She must be prepared for the exhibition.”

  The Artist works quickly, pulling the underwear out of a drawer. As he dresses Patty Shay’s naked body unbidden tears flood from his eyes. He notices that the girl’s got a tuft of public hair as he slips the panties on her. Her breasts are small but well defined—a girl blossoming into a woman. He lingers for a moment as he holds her up, fastening the bra. When the task is completed his eyes become downcast, the tears coming harder now.

  The voice he hears is shrill, dismissive. “What are you doing?”

  “I wa…want to be…like her,” he defiantly shouts.

  Ellian screams. “YOU ARE NOT LIKE HER. YOUR ARE FLAWED.”

  “NO,” he screams, finding some deep inner strength. “I WILL NOT…”

  “STOP.” There’s silence before the laughter begins. It starts with the familiar, mocking sing-song of mirth until it becomes louder, something taunting, dismissive, finally rising into a shrill, angry blast of disapproval.

  The Artist covers his ears, rocking back and forth, trying to silence the outburst. “NO… NO … NO…”

  Ellian’s voice is now like a freight train descending on him. “THEN DO AS YOU ARE TOLD.”

  The Artist draws in a heavy breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He makes a conscious effort to push down his emotions, dries his eyes, and nods his head in submission. He finds the gown and quickly finishes dressing the girl, placing her sleeping body in a wheelchair. The expensive shoes are the final touch before he begins wheeling her to the door.

  “The instrument,” Ellian yells. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  He walks over to the table, finds the scalpel, and pushes it into his pocket before leaving.

  The Artist finds the night is dark and moonless. He moves through the shadows, taking the seldom used path to the small neighborhood park. When he’s near the park, he looks up. There’s the steady thump of rotor blades overhead. Then he sees the helicopter, its searchlight focusing on his house.

  “Hurry,” Ellian demands. “The exhibit must be finished.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Just before landing at Tulsa International Airport I got a call back from Skyway Air and we caught a break. I ended the call and said to Dawson, “Loretta Martin lives near the Museum of Art that was destroyed in the tornado.”

  Dawson glanced over at me, “Was the house hit during the storm?”

  I checked my phone and found a couple of stories on the storm but wasn’t sure. What was I thinking? I had two Tulsa cops in the back seat. I turned to them. “You guys know if the area around Evanston and 29th street was destroyed in the storm last month?”

  Haas scratched his wide jaw. “Can’t say for sure…”

  “It’s fine,” Marcel Reed grunted. “My aunt lives near there.”

  After landing we jumped on a helicopter Dawson had chartered. The house Martin had rented was less than ten minutes away. The night was damp and overcast. I checked my watch and saw that we had about that much time before The Artist’s twelve hour deadline was up.

  I took a seat next to Reed, hoping he wouldn’t become airsick again. As the chopper lifted off and banked I said to Dawson, “This is going to be close.”

  We strapped in even as we were in the air. Dawson yelled over the whir of the rotor blades, “We’re going in hot, kids. Remember, the girl’s our focus but if we save her and get a chance to take down James or Loretta or whatever the fuck he calls himself we ain’t calling the crisis intervention team.”

  When we got to Martin’s neighborhood, our pilot turned on his spotlight and lit up the house.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Dawson demanded. “Why don’t you also use the god-damned loudspeaker, ask him to open the door, and invite us in for drinks.”

  “Sorry,” the pilot said, killing the light. “There’s a field behind the house. I can set you down there.”

  After he touched down, we scrambled out of the helicopter with our heads lowered and raced toward the small house. There was nothing remarkable about the residence, probably just what The Artist intended. The girls that had been abducted and held for years in a modest home in Cleveland flashed through my mind.

  When we got to the porch Dawson wasted no time, kicking in the door. We entered with our guns drawn. Moments later we had the small house cleared and found no one was home. I huffed out a breath in frustration, cursing as Dawson joined me in the bedroom.

  “She’s already been taken for display,” I said, stating the obvious.

  We’d both seen the art supplies on the lighted vanity at the same time. I turned and saw some leather straps attached to the bedposts, an empty shoebox on the floor. Dawson said something. I turned back to him and saw that he was holding a map.

  “He’s completing a cycle,” he said, showing me that it was a map of the United States. I came over to him and saw that the Chinese symbol for death was painted on the map. It was directly over a city that was all too familiar to me. There was also a date thirty days from today written on the map, no doubt indicating the date The Artist would take his final victim.

  I looked at Dawson as the realization hit me. “He’s coming back to where he started.”

  “Your home town,” Dawson said as Bill Haas came into the room.

  “I just got a radio call,” Haas said. “There’s something happening at the park up the street.”

  We took a dirt path that led from the yard into the field where we’d landed that bordered a small park.

  We stopped in a clearing as Dawson pointed across the park. “There’s something over there by the trees.” He turned to Haas who had come up the path behind us with a flashlight. “Light it up, Jethro.”

  We moved toward a cluster of trees at the edge of the park just as the big cop’s flashlight illuminated what Dawson had seen. I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire body sagged, my muscles feeling like they could barely support my body weight.

  I choked out a breath, glancing over at Dawson then back to the clearing between the two trees. The sense of loss that had been stalking me for weeks was now overwhelming. “We’re too la
te.”

  Patty Shaw had been trussed up by a rope between two large elm trees. Her body was dressed in a flowing white gown, illuminated by the flashlight. There was something about the blood streaming down her painted face from where her eyes had once been that brought tears to my own eyes. I glanced around the area, but the monster who had murdered her was nowhere in sight.

  I heard my phone ringing. My hands pulled it out of my pocket and I answered it instinctively, without thinking.

  I heard a voice. At first, it sounded far away and faint. Then I realized it was Jack saying, “Your mother’s been hurt, Kate. She’s in the hospital.”

  Maybe it was the trauma of what I was witnessing and hearing, but I heard my words as though they were coming from somewhere outside my body. My voice was weak and had a childlike quality as I asked, “What happened?”

  “She was attacked at home last night. We think it was Ryan Cooper.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Morning.” Mom’s voice was still broken and fragile, not much more than a croak.

  I came over to her side. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve made a decision.” She stood in her kitchen and poured the one cup of coffee she allotted herself every morning. She held the steaming cup in her trembling hands and found my eyes. “I want to go stay with my sister and the sooner the better. She lives in one of those gated communities with a security guard in South Carolina.”

  I put my arm around her. “I’ll see if I can get you on a plane later today, if you feel up to flying.”

  I knew that a gate and a guard were no guarantees of safety, especially with Ryan Cooper around, but I decided that getting my mother out of Hollywood and as far away from the man who had been stalking us made sense. Mom had suffered a concussion when someone broke into her house and attacked her. After two days in the hospital, she’d been released but had no memory of the attack. Given everything that had been happening, Cooper was the obvious suspect.