by M. Z. Kelly
“What’s going on here?” Buck demanded.
In that moment, a deep shutter moved through me. I felt my world shifting again, something changing, maybe forever. My earlier thoughts about paths being taken that we had no control over again came to mind.
Even though I’d only seen the woman standing in front of us in a mug shot taken during an arrest years earlier, I instinctively knew who she was. I had no doubt that I was looking into the eyes of Buck McCade’s ex-wife, Colleen.
“We came to take you home with us,” she said to Buck. Her eyes shifted for a moment, shooting me a look of hatred, before finding her ex-husband again.
“What are you talking about?” Buck said.
She reached down into the baby stroller and pulled a blanket away from an infant’s face. The baby started crying, maybe blinded by the bright sunlight.
“He looks just like you,” she said to Buck. “This is our son.”
Thanks for reading, HOLLYWOOD GAMES . . .
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More by this author:
The Hollywood Alphabet Thriller Series, with Detective Kate Sexton and her canine partner, Bernie:
•Hollywood Assassin
•Hollywood Blood
•Hollywood Crazy
•Hollywood Dirty
•Hollywood Enemy
•Hollywood Forbidden
•Hollywood Homicide (Coming Soon)
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Now an excerpt from:
HOLLYWOOD HOMICIDE
BY
MZ KELLY
CHAPTER ONE
Dead.
That’s the fate I had in mind for The Sadist. He was a brutal serial rapist who had created a reign of terror, prowling the streets of Hollywood and other cities around Los Angeles for the past three years. His latest victim, Marcy Dunn, had survived her ordeal—barely. We were unsure if Marcy would ever talk or walk again. The Sadist had engaged in some knife work, disfiguring the girl before raping and dumping her from a moving car a couple of blocks north of where I stood.
The late summer night was warm, probably still close to eighty degrees, where I stood on the street corner with about a half a dozen other women. I’d already had a confrontation with someone named Billie Jean who told me that she had territorial rights to the block I was working. Rather than blowing my cover, I moved on, taking my off-the-shoulder LBD with the wire concealed beneath the skimpy black material a couple of blocks down the street.
“Time check,” I heard Earl Handy say into my earpiece. Handy, a Hollywood vice cop called Handyman by the locals, was in an unmarked car in a parking lot less than a block up the street with Pearl Kramer. Kramer was a retired one-time chief of detectives who worked part-time on special assignments. He was my friend, one of the few good guys in a department that sometimes forgot what it means to work the streets.
I knew there were two other unmarked cars in the vicinity out of sight as I answered Handyman. “Ten-four. All quiet here.”
I took the break in the street action to remove one of my stiletto heels and massage my foot, watching as the customers slowed down looking for dates. I purposely turned away from a couple of the johns, knowing they didn’t fit the profile of our suspect.
I should probably explain how I ended up half-naked, standing on Hollywood Boulevard, and looking for sex partners. My name is Kate Sexton. My usual assignment was with LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division, or RHD, where I worked with my canine partner, Bernie. My furry hairball companion was home with my mother tonight. My big dog was, no doubt, wishing that he could sink his teeth into a rapist, rather than deal with Miss. Daisy, as my new age psychic guru mother sometimes called herself. Mom was suffering some emotional problems lately and I’d put on my stupid hat and agreed to move in with her a couple of weeks ago.
I’d volunteered for the vice duty after I’d heard about the girls being attacked. I knew it was a dangerous assignment but I didn’t care. I was feeling hollow inside after the cases I’d worked over the past few years and some relationship issues in my personal life. A shrink might have even said that in some ways I was punishing myself for what I perceived as my life having gone off the rails. The analysis probably wouldn’t be too far off the mark.
“We’ve got a visual on a white van coming up the street in your direction,” I heard Handyman say over my wireless earpiece. “No plates. The general description matches our suspect vehicle.”
I put my shoe back on and glanced up the boulevard. I held my breath as I watched the vehicle approach. An older model dirty Ford panel van. No license plates. Windows tinted. It all fit, but I also knew it probably matched the description of dozens of other vans in Hollywood.
The driver slowed down about twenty yards up the street. Maybe it was my imagination, but I had the sense that he was studying me. If he was The Sadist, he was probably also looking for witnesses or maybe even my fellow officers parked in the shadows around the area.
Despite my feelings of dread, I put on my best hooker smile. I’m tall with dark hair, green eyes, and even features, but I hardly fit the typical stereotype of a street walker. Even so, I tugged at the top of my dress, revealing what little cleavage I had and conjured up what I thought might be my best come fuck me look.
Ten yards away the van began to accelerate. I’d decided that the driver had made a decision to move on when the vehicle suddenly swerved closer to me and the side door rumbled open. A pair of hands reached out and grabbed me before I could react, yanking me inside. I tumbled onto the floorboard, turned, and looked up into the face of a monster.
“Eleven ninety-nine,” I said into my wire, giving the department’s ten code for an officer needs help. My voice pitched higher and I repeated the need for immediate assistance.
Then I regained my bearings, looked over, and saw the girl. She was naked and chained to a bar. She’d suffered the same fate that I imagined The Sadist had in mind for me.
She was dead.
CHAPTER TWO
I tried to scramble away from the madman as the van jerked away from the curb and accelerated. The interior was dark, the air rank, giving me the impression of something rancid. I then felt a meaty hand on my back and heard the sound of fabric ripping.
“She’s got a wire,” my assailant yelled to the driver as my dress came down to my waist. “We picked up a fucking cop.”
“Eleven ninety-nine,” I shouted out again before my attacker stomped on the wireless communication device.
The monster then turned his full attention on me, his real purpose surfacing. “Let’s have a little fun while we lose your friends.”
; The van lurched forward, accelerating faster, and fish tailing as a pair of massive hands locked around my neck. My airway was clamped off. I desperately fought back, trying to gouge his eyes and pull away. In the desperation of that moment I was able to take in my assailant’s features, maybe because they were burned into my consciousness by the adrenaline surging through my body. Heavy forehead. Round face. Squat nose. Acne scars. Dark eyes, empty eyes. It all fit. This was the man I’d seen in the police artist’s rendering of Marcy Dunn’s attacker. This was The Sadist.
“Save something for me,” I heard the driver calling back to his partner.
My vision began to narrow and I felt weak. I sensed that I had moments to act before I lost consciousness. I brought my knee up in a power move that I’d been taught in an officer safety class at the police academy, concentrating my energy in my assailant’s most vulnerable area.
“Fuuucckkk,” the monster bellowed as his hands came lose and he stumbled back.
I took the opportunity to glance around the van as we skidded around a corner. I lost my balance and went down. I desperately felt around in the dim light, my hands brushing against a chain that had probably been meant to imprison me.
My attacker was on me again, this time pulling me up and slamming a fist into my jaw. I fell back again, but he held onto me, pummeling me a second time. My consciousness began to dim again, at the same time my heart hammered against my ribcage. I knew instinctively this was a fight for survival. I had no idea if my fellow officers were somewhere behind us in pursuit, but even if they were I knew that I had moments to react and save my own life.
I gathered all my strength and pushed away from my attacker. I found the chain on the floorboard and brought it up, lashing out at him. He fell back as I struck him in the face. He screamed obscenities and brought out a knife saying, “You’re going to die right now, bitch.”
He lunged at me with the knife, but I shifted my weight. The knife found nothing but air. I simultaneously brought the chain up down, striking him across the face. He went down, losing the knife during the fall. I took the opportunity to wrap the chain around his neck, this time cutting off his airway, at the same time wishing I had a way to reach out for the knife.
His hands came up to his neck as he desperately clawed for air. I took a moment to glance toward the front of the van. I had the sense that we’d crossed over the freeway and were now in a residential area. As I twisted harder on the chain I realized that the driver was reaching over into the glove compartment. I saw the shiny glint of light on metal as he swung his hand back in my direction.
He had a gun.
Copyright © 2014 by MZ Kelly
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