Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “Jason?” Zach says. She senses him tensing up, pulling back from her. “What…what’s going…on.” She hears the confusion in his voice.

  He moves away from her, even as she tries to catch her breath, still lost in desire. She hears a click. Suddenly there’s the glow of light filling the room.

  Loretta grabs her blouse, covering herself, at the same time seeing Zach’s features twist into horror and disbelief. Even though he’s not with her, she imagines hearing Ellian’s voice screaming at her…YOU ARE VILE…DEFORMED…UGLY.

  “What…what the hell…happened to you?” Zach demands.

  Her hands come up to her ears. She begins to rock back and forth, pleading, “Stop…please…make it stop.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Zach shakes his head. “Whoever…whatever the hell you are…you need to go.”

  Loretta finally controls herself, the voice in her head quieting. She gathers up her clothing. “I need to use the bathroom first.”

  “Whatever.” She sees him shaking his head in disgust.

  When she gets to the bathroom, Loretta takes a moment, letting her eyes slowly move over the body in the mirror.

  The body. She studies it, her contempt and revulsion surfacing.

  The arms are well-proportioned, the muscles toned like those of an athlete. The neck is supple and smooth. But as her gaze sweeps lower she sees that the chest is flat, the breasts non-existent. Her stomach churns, the bile in her throat rising.

  Lowering now, her vision sweeps over her stomach. It is flat and hairless. The muscles are well-defined, almost on a par with the girls she’s seen in those workout clubs. She’s even gone to one of those tanning salons, giving the body a soft brown glow.

  Despite every effort, she can’t stop her eyes from lowering even further until…

  “What are you doing in there?” Zach demands, pounding on the bathroom door.

  Loretta’s mind surfaces. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

  She works quickly now, removing her wig before finding the paintbrush and small vials of paint in her purse. Each brushstroke that she makes is transforming, turning the image staring back at her in the mirror into something that is not of this world; an alien monster streaked with hues of red, gold, and blue. A few minutes later, Loretta is completely transformed. She is no longer the deformed, hideous image that Ellian despises.

  She is The Artist.

  The bathroom door swings opens. The nude, painted creature that emerges is filled with rage and now another kind of lust—bloodlust. She finds Zach in the living room and says, “It is time.”

  “What the hell?” Zach examines the naked monster standing in front of him, streaked in a rainbow of colors. “What are you…”

  “I’m The Artist,” Loretta says, swinging a scalpel up and slicing an artery in his neck. “And now you’re going to die.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “I wish The Beast hadn’t pulled me off the case,” Charlie said as he drove us to the FBI offices in downtown Los Angeles. Pearl Kramer and Arnold Murphy were following in a car behind us. I’d talked to John Greer about my other partner, the hairy one, also working the case, but he requested that Bernie be held back. The feds had experience with canines, using them in human scent and explosive detection, but not in their day to day field operations. I’d left Bernie at home with promises from my roommates to care for him and Bubba.

  “There’s nothing happening on the case anyway,” I said, thinking about the man who was trying to kill me, “So why the concern?”

  “I think we’re getting closer to something. We think Cooper might have been living in South America during the years he and your mother were off the radar. Jack just got ahold of a friend of the actress he murdered. She said that Cooper talked a lot about Brazil, even mentioning that he’d lived in Rio for a while.”

  I hadn’t talked to Jack since last night and still felt guilty about the way I’d handled things, but what Charlie had said made me think we were missing something. “If Cooper and my birthmother were living in Brazil it would mean they were there under false names and identities. I remember Jack mentioning there were no passports issued under their real names.”

  “If they were living there under aliases it could be they were on the run from something or someone. It’s a lead we’re, or should I say Jack and John Duncan, are following up on.” He opened a packet of mini-donuts and began munching as he drove.

  It looked like my partner had cleaned up for his new assignment, even pressed his shirt for a change. Maybe Wilma was trying to domesticate him. “How’s the love life?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t get too many intimate details.

  “Wilma and me are going strong again.” He glanced at me. With his mouth full he added, “But I think maybe she’s just looking for a meal ticket.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. Wilma has a job.”

  “I’m talking about my retirement. You ever heard the term sugar cougar?” I shook my head. Charlie swallowed. “It’s a woman who hooks up with a retired cop, or in my case a soon to be retired cop, hoping to get part of his pension.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Wilma’s not that type.”

  My partner gave me a goofy grin, which could only mean one thing—he and Wilma had sex last night. “All I know is that Wilma’s acting like a cougar that wants the sugar, and, for now, her baby boy is a happy guy.”

  “Enough.” I tried to keep the visual of the cougar mauling her “baby” at bay. “How much longer—until you pull the plug?”

  “End of the month is end of watch for me.”

  “That soon? I didn’t realize…”

  “I’m toast, Kate. Got me an appointment with a realtor in Idaho next month. I’m hoping to find a little cabin.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  Charlie mumbled something about us having good times, which I knew was as close to sentiment as he got. As we pulled into the parking garage, I wondered who I’d get as a partner to replace him. Losing Charlie felt like just another of the many losses that were piling up for me.

  We met with Joe Dawson and the other recently assigned task force members in a conference room on the third floor of the FBI building. After introductions, Dawson took a moment to inform the group about the death threats made against me and explain the presence of my security “entourage.” He then gave everyone a brief overview of our case before turning the meeting over to Carl Romero and Julie Knutson, a couple of civilian profilers.

  Romero began by telling us what they’d learned about Loretta aka James Martin. He was short in stature and had a habit of sniffing as he talked, maybe because of allergies. “According to the brother, James or Loretta, had sexual identification issues as a child. It’s noteworthy that their mother and father are deceased. The boys were raised by relatives and were never close but, based upon the comments made by Albert, we believe that James may suffer from Klinefelter’s Syndrome.”

  “Never heard of it,” Dawson said, glancing up from a crossword puzzle he’d been working on.

  “It’s a genetic abnormality in which some boys are born with an extra X chromosome,” Julie Knutson explained. Romero’s partner was tall and rather plain. Something about her made me think of a librarian rather than someone who specialized in serial killers. “Instead of the typical XY chromosomal pattern, Klinefelter subjects present with an XXY.”

  “What are the physical characteristics of these individuals?” I asked.

  Romero took over again. “There’s a wide variation of physical types, but typically the subjects have small breasts and testicles, abnormal body proportions including long legs and a shorter trunk, and they’re sometimes tall in stature.”

  The woman I knew as the FBI flight attendant, Loretta Martin, was tall with a slender build and small breasts. What they were postulating seemed to fit.

  “Albert remembered that his brother liked to play with dolls as a young boy and enjoyed dressing as a girl,” Romero said with a sniff be
fore clearing his throat. “We believe the possible chromosomal abnormalities, gender identification issues, along with some other indeterminate trauma, possibly involving childhood molestation, might have formed the basis of the killer’s behavior.”

  “It all sounds like alphabet soup to me,” Dawson grumbled. “It doesn’t do anything to help us.”

  “We also believe that The Artist’s signature—namely the removal of the victim’s eyes, is a symbolic gesture,” Knutson said. “The blinding of the victims may express the killer’s desire to be seen as a woman. His victims can’t see his true nature, namely that he is a female trapped in a male body, so he removes their eyes. It’s a symbolic way of expressing his past trauma, frustration with his life, and lack of sexual acceptance.”

  Joe Dawson looked over at me. He cupped a hand and mouthed the word “crazy” before the profilers went on about Loretta Martin for another ten minutes.

  “From what I’ve heard,” Pearl said when the profilers finally finished, “The Artist always kills in pairs one month apart. Any theories about why he’s now coming back to Hollywood?”

  Dawson took over before Romero or Knutson could speak. “It’s just a guess, but I think something happened after the murder of Joanne Vreeland. James or Loretta had to leave town in a hurry ten years ago and never got to complete what he’d started. I think he believes that finishing up where it all began will complete the cycle.”

  The profilers chimed in, generally supporting what Dawson had to say. As they talked it occurred to me that my FBI partner had guessed several weeks ago that The Artist was coming back to Hollywood. That’s why he’d wanted an L.A. cop on the case.

  When Romero and Knutson finally finished, it was obvious that Dawson was irritated by what he heard. “Okay, here’s how this goes. We’ve only got a few hours before looney-tune Loretta takes a girl. That also means there’s a window of opportunity for us to intercept a letter to one of the local asswipers. We’ve had our people discretely watching the media outlets for the past week but nothing’s turned up so far.”

  He handed each of us a list of the local papers, including some small independent publications, with the names of the officers assigned to talk to them. I saw that Dawson and I were scheduled to meet with Dominick Salvatore, the Herald-Press’s city editor. I’d crossed paths with Slavatore before and found him to be an egotistical jerk. I doubted that he would be cooperative.

  “I want you locals to be discrete when you talk to the editors and not give them a lot of specifics about our guy for obvious reasons,” Dawson added. “On the other hand we do need to get the point across that we expect their cooperation.”

  “What about a notification to the public?” Pearl asked. “Without some kind of advanced statement to the media, if The Artist takes a girl and we haven’t warned the public we’re going to have a huge PR problem.”

  Dawson nodded his big head in agreement. “Being done as we speak. The Agency’s media people are informing the press that we believe the perpetrator of multiple homicides is operating in this area. The statement will be a general advisory without going into details about the crime or any specific reference to The Artist.”

  “I hope that’s sufficient,” Carl Romero said. “The public has a right to know.”

  “They have a right to know what we tell them,” Dawson barked. “We start giving the press details about whacko Picasso and they’ll whip up more hysteria than a shitload of shrinks in a nuthouse.”

  Romero started to respond, but, probably using every neuron he possessed, had the good sense to bite his tongue.

  Charlie had apparently reached his appetite control limit and popped another donut into his mouth. He motioned to Pearl and Arnold Murphy, garbling, “The three of us are supposed to stay with Kate…provide security.”

  It was typical Daddy Charlie stuff and it irritated me to no end. I started to respond when Dawson intervened.

  “Everyone here can chew gum and shoot at the same time. Unless you want to lock your partner in a Dunkin’ Donuts shop and stand guard all day she’s working the streets.” He looked around the table. “Let’s move on this.”

  As the meeting broke up, the two profilers came over to Dawson and me. Carl Romero asked the FBI agent about their duties.

  Dawson cut them no slack. “Romeo, I want you and Juliet to write out your profiles of The Artist in detail. Then I need you to roll up the paperwork and keep it handy in case he comes skipping down the hallway with a paintbrush so you can whack him on the head with it.”

  We left Romero with his mouth hanging open and walked to the elevator. I said to Dawson, “You haven’t lost your touch.”

  He glanced at me and hit the call button. “Just like brandy, I get better with age, Buttercup.”

  We were in the parking garage when I got a call from Sam Waters, a detective who worked RHD in the Northeast Division. “We’re at the scene of a homicide at an apartment in Highland Park,” Waters said. “Our victim’s head was nearly severed, probably by a sharp knife. There’s a lot of blood but there’s also something else I’m told you guys might be interested in knowing about.”

  I asked him for the details as I held up a hand to Dawson, letting him know we might have something.

  “There’s a bunch of artist’s paint and brushes in the bathroom and a lot of bloody prints. They come back to a guy you’re apparently looking for. Somebody named James Martin.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  As Joe Dawson drove us to Highland Park I mentioned Robert Lofton’s background again and asked him if they’d gotten the hospital records on the sex offender.

  Dawson’s baby blues swung over to me. “The state was papered a couple of days ago, so it’s now with the bureaucrats.”

  “Knowing how the state works it could take forever.”

  “Something we don’t have. Loretta’s probably getting ready for work somewhere right about now.” He paused, his gaze coming back over. “Greer told me that you’ve had a rough few weeks.”

  I breathed but gave nothing up. “It hasn’t been a picnic but I’m surviving.”

  He nodded. “That’s what we have in common, Kate.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “We both survive, move on, no matter what happens.”

  I smiled, remembering what he’d said about me on the airplane a few weeks back. “You left that out of your profile.”

  “Ditto.” Now he smiled. “Maybe we’ve still got a few things to learn about one another.”

  I was going to respond but got distracted by the small army of police cars outside the apartment complex in Highland Park. We met up with Sam Waters, a muscle-bound detective with a shaved head, in the building’s lobby.

  “Our victim is Zachary Clemson, age twenty-seven,” Waters said. “As I mentioned, the attack was pretty vicious. The SID people are inside now. Lots of stuff in the bathroom.”

  “We’ll take a look,” Dawson said, moving past Waters. We took the stairs where we found the apartment, badged a uniform, and ducked under the crime scene tape.

  We found the victim on the floor next to a sofa. Waters hadn’t exaggerated. The wound to Clemson’s neck was so deep that when he fell his head was pushed back exposing the large gash. The blood spray covered the coffee table, rug, and television.

  “What’s your best guess on the weapon?” Dawson asked Bob Woodley, a crime scene supervisor I’d worked with before.

  “It was very sharp, might have even been a scalpel. We should know more when we get him on the table.”

  “No time for that.” Dawson marched over to the bathroom with me following. We both saw the brush, the painting supplies. The vanity was covered in a dusting of fine dark powder used to look for prints. On a bench up against a wall was a blonde wig.

  Dawson turned to me. “Loretta’s back in town and she’s letting down her hair.”

  When we got back to the lobby, Sam Waters asked us about our case on James Martin. “Long story short,” Daws
on said. “Guy calls himself The Artist, kidnaps girls, paints them, takes out their eyes, and puts them on display.” He motioned to me. “Sexton we’ll get you the particulars.” Dawson looked at me. “None of this fits.”

  I shook my head in agreement. “It’s outside the normal pattern. Maybe…it was a random act, a hookup that got unhooked in the worst way.”

  “I’ll put Romeo and Juliet on it just to keep them out of our hair.” He turned, waved for me to follow as we rushed to the car. “Let’s go see the editor of the Herald-Press.”

  On the way, after Dawson called the FBI profilers, I filled him in on Dominick Salvatore. “He’s the front man, running interference for Ross Atkinson, the newspaper’s owner. Salvatore likes the spotlight, thinks it’s his duty to ferret out corruption and incompetence.” I met Dawson’s eyes. “As you might have guessed, I hate his guts.”

  My FBI partner’s chin jutted out when he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

  “I hate his fucking guts.”

  ***

  As it turned out Salvatore was unavailable most of the day. It was just after eleven when we finally met with the newspaper editor in an empty office on the sixth floor of an almost empty Herald-Press building. Dominick Salvatore was a tall, gaunt man with dark eyes and an aquiline nose. He was bald except for a flange of snow white hair. Maybe he’d been a bald eagle in a former life—one with a bad attitude.

  “I need details before I agree to anything,” Salvatore said to us after we explained in general terms why we were there. His eyes fixed on Dawson, probably because he despised me. He’d interfered in a past case I’d worked and didn’t like me calling him out on it, leaving my opinion of him somewhere lower than a bald, brain dead Muppet. He went on, “I read the prepared statement you people put out, some gibberish about multiple homicides and the public being careful. I want facts.”

  “Here’s the facts,” Joe Dawson said, leaning over until he was within a few inches of Salvatore’s beak. “Ten years ago a killer left a note with the editor of this newspaper, announcing that he’d kidnapped a girl and planned to kill her. The editor had the good sense to call the police and hand over the letter. I want you to do the same thing.”