In Cold Blonde

by James L. Conway

  Blake had no guilt about what he did for a living. Stars needed publicity to pimp their movies and TV shows. And most of the celebs who adorned the Enquirer, Star, People, and US were people who asked for it. Everyone knows the paparazzi hang out at certain restaurants; if you don’t want to be mobbed, don’t go to the fucking restaurant. Eat somewhere else! Yet the twits continue to go to the Ivy, to Skybar, to Morton’s and act annoyed when the paparazzi descend.

  And yes, some photographers went too far. Blake didn’t really condone extreme behavior publicly, but he paid his people huge bonuses for those priceless snaps and never asked how they got them.

  Blake checked his email and then turned to look out the picture window. It was a beautiful spring day, temperature in the low sixties, a calm sea. He checked his watch. He had a meeting in about an hour, but he still had time for a run.

  Blake noticed a girl in a red bikini kayaking nearby as he jogged down the beach but didn’t pay too much attention. He was jogging away from her so couldn’t see her for long. But after he turned around and was jogging back up the beach, he saw plenty of her. Kind of hot, he thought, but she was too far away to be sure.

  She seemed to be having trouble paddling and then as he got closer, the kayak suddenly flipped and she disappeared under water. Kayaks are supposed to flip back over but this one didn’t. And moments later the girl popped to the surface, arms flailing, obviously in distress.

  Blake kicked off his sneakers and dove in. He was a good swimmer and a few powerful strokes quickly brought him to her. Her eyes were panicked, wild. She must’ve swallowed a mouthful of water when she flipped over, because she was coughing, having trouble breathing.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Blake said, wrapping an arm around her. “Stay calm and I’ll get you to shore.” The woman obeyed, relaxed, and Blake paddled.

  When they got to shore, the women bent over coughing as Blake’s retrieved his shoes. When he came back, the woman stood up and he got his first real good look at her.

  She was blonde, with green eyes, great tits and incredible legs. The ocean was cold, goose bumps covered her body and she was shivering. “You saved my life,” she said.

  “But it looks like you’re about to freeze to death. I live right there,” he said pointing at his house. “Come inside and let me get you warmed up.”

  She dazzled him with a smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  THIRTY

  Newport Beach was only fifty miles from Hollywood, but in heavy traffic it could take over two hours to get there, so when time was an issue and the LAPD had to interface with an Orange County law enforcement agency on a murder investigation, they used the phone, fax and internet. Newport Beach PD faxed the initial crime scene report to Hollywood, and the Medical Examiner’s Office would email their report later in the day.

  Ryan, Syd and Lieutenant Hanrahan were on a speakerphone in the conference room. Ramirez was patched in from his office at SID and the lead detective from Newport Beach, Alex Cortez, was on the phone in his Captain’s office. “His body was found at a little after 7:00 p.m. by a storekeeper taking out the trash,” Cortez said. “Shot once in the face. The Medical Examiner put the time of death between 6:00 p.m. and when he was found.”

  “Was there any mutilation of the body?” Ryan asked.

  “What kind of mutilation?”

  “A missing or rearranged body part?”

  “No. But you’ve sure got my attention.”

  Ryan and Syd exchanged disappointed looks. “Was there anything carved onto his body?”

  Cortez laughed. “No. Man, you must have some freak up there.”

  “Maybe it’s not her,” Hanrahan said to Ryan and Syd.

  Ramirez asked, “What caliber bullet was he shot with?”

  “.25”

  “Same here,” Ramirez said. “I think your SID and I need to compare our lands and grooves.”

  “I’m hoping they match.” Ryan said. “Detective Cortez, were there any reports of a beautiful blonde in the area.”

  “Hey, this is the OC, man, we got beautiful blondes all over the place,” Cortez said, and then remembered something. “But Stone’s last client of the day was blonde. His assistant told us she was very attractive.”

  “Wearing red?” Syd asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes she was.”

  “You get a name?”

  Cortez flipped some notebook pages. “Susan Rafferty. That’s all the assistant got. No address, no phone number.”

  “Have you run her?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Not yet. Without an address or phone number I didn’t see how much good it would do, but hell, you never know. Hey, Billy,” Cortez yelled out. “Run the name Susan Rafferty, will you, tell me what you find.”

  “I’m guessing it’s a phony,” Syd said.

  “Did the assistant know what the blonde and Stone talked about?”

  Cortez checked his notes. “No. They talked for about fifteen minutes and she left. He worked for an hour longer then left for the day. She had no idea what his plans were for the rest of the evening. To be honest guys, Stone was a criminal defense attorney so we’ve been focusing on any old clients who might’ve had a grudge. The blonde wasn’t even on our radar.”

  “Not surprising,” Ryan said. “I would have done the same thing.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Cortez said. “What’s with the mutilation and carving questions?”

  Ryan glanced at Hanrahan for permission to tell them, Hanrahan nodded his assent. “Our victim’s penis was cut off and stuffed in his mouth,” Ryan said.

  “No way!”

  “And the number 2 was carved in his chest.”

  “The number 2…” Cortez digested this, made a connection. “Son of a bitch, that may explain the dollar bill.”

  “Dollar bill?” Syd asked.

  “Yeah, Stone had three hundred and sixty-six dollars in his wallet, but he also had a one dollar bill in his hand.”

  “One dollar bill,” Syd said. “It’s her, I’m sure of it. Zachary Stone was first, Colin Wood was second.”

  “But why mutilate Wood and not Stone?” Cortez asked.

  “If this is revenge for a rape, Stone was just the lawyer,” Syd said. “He probably never touched her. But Wood was another story.”

  “And since she’s numbering her victims,” Ryan said, “we’re thinking there will be more. We spoke to an Orange County attorney, Chris Reade, who’d heard that Stone represented Colin Wood in a case when Wood was in high school. There were rumors that money was paid to a date rape victim. Any way to get information on a case Stone handled ten or eleven years ago?”

  “It’s tricky, you know that. I’ll give it a shot but its privileged information.”

  A uniformed cop appeared in the conference room doorway, signaled for Hanrahan. The Lieutenant joined him as Syd said, “There’s one guy who knows who knows for sure, Colin Wood’s father.”

  “We’ve been trying to call him without luck,” Ryan said. “Detective Cortez, maybe you can put a Be On the Lookout for him.”

  “Consider it done. And we’ll pay a visit to his home and office. I’ll find him, don’t worry. Wait, hold on,” Cortez took a printout from Billy. “Okay, we’ve got six Susan Raffertys in Southern California.” He scanned the list, frowned. “Two in their forties, three in their sixties and one is eighty-eight.”

  “Told you,” Syd said. “It’s a phony. Smart lady.”

  “And dangerous,” Hanrahan said. Ryan and Syd looked at him. “They just found a body at the Bel Air Regent Hotel with a missing body part.”

  “On my way,” Ramirez said and hung up.

  “Good luck,” Cortez said and hung up.

  But they were talking to no one. Ryan and Syd were already out the door.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I bet Mr. Magee is very happy.”

  “He’s thrilled, believe me,” Anne said. She was on the phone with Lucinda McCarthy, a vice president
of the California Lottery. They loved giving out big jackpots almost as much the winner loved getting the money. Big, highly publicized payouts always led to a spike in sales.

  Anne was in her office at Rogers, Middleton and Roberts, staring out at a crystal clear Los Angeles morning.

  Lucinda, a cheerful bundle of energy, sat in front of her computer in the Van Nuys district office. “I saw Detective Magee on television; he’s quite good looking isn’t he?”

  “Adorable.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “Very.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Divorced, I think,” Anne said.

  “Some dumb woman’s going to regret that,” Lucinda said, laughing.

  “Tell me about it,” Anne said.

  Lucinda hit a couple of keys, finished inputting the Lotto ticket serial number Anne had provided. “Oh, my, Mr. Magee likes to cut things close, doesn’t he? This ticket expires tomorrow.”

  “Actually,” Anne said. “He just found it, forgot he even bought it.”

  “It happens all the time,” Lucinda said. “We’ve had almost a hundred million dollars in unclaimed jackpots in the last twenty years. Now would Mr. Magee like to receive his check privately or would he prefer a press conference?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know there was a choice.” Contrary to what Anne told Ryan, neither she nor her firm had ever represented a Lotto winner. But she figured her credibility would be enhanced if she’d actually represented lottery winners so she’d gone online to get the statistics and case studies she’d described to Ryan.

  “We only hold a press conference if the winner wants one. We like to respect everyone’s privacy. Many winners wish to remain anonymous. But if someone wants a press conference then we rent a small ballroom in a local hotel, invite the media, the owner of the outlet that sold the ticket, and of course, the lucky winner.”

  “Well,” Anne said. “Anonymity is out of the question at this point, the press has already learned that Mr. Magee won. His name is actually Detective Ryan Magee, he’s an LAPD Homicide detective.”

  “Yes, I know, I saw it on the news. Isn’t it wonderful! To be honest we have a hard time getting the local press interested in Lotto winners these days. We’ve been giving out jackpots for over twenty years so you need something extraordinary to pique their interest. But they do love the hard-working-public-servant-strikes-it-rich angle.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know that besides Detective Magee being a cop, he’s also planning to donate much of his winnings to charity. We plan to announce the formation of a charitable foundation at the press conference.”

  “That’ll get the media’s attention. How generous of him. There is a Holiday Inn in Studio City we often use for press conferences. I’ll check with them and make sure the ballroom’s available. Did you have a time in mind?”

  “I was thinking late morning, say eleven.”

  “Excellent. Late morning usually gets our best press turnout.”

  “Good.”

  “Now if Mr. Magee needs a CPA, I’ve got a cousin who has handled the finances of a number of lottery winners.”

  “No, he’s got a CPA.”

  “How about a real estate agent? I’m sure Mr. Magee’s thinking about a new home right about now and my cousin, Ed, has put a number of lottery winners into the home of their dreams.”

  “We got that handled, too.”

  “Bet he needs a new car. My cousin, Teddy, owns the Cadillac dealership in Burbank and he’s helped a lot of lottery winners into their first Escalade.”

  How big is your frickin’ family lady, thought Anne. “No, Mr. Magee’s got everything he needs.”

  “All right then,” Lucinda said, disappointed but undeterred. “But I know how difficult it is to navigate the sudden wealth landscape so if you or Mr. Magee need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Now just give me a couple of hours to coordinate things on my end and confirm the hotel, then I’ll call you back with all the particulars.”

  “That’ll be great, Lucinda. Thank you,” Anne said and hung up.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Startled, Anne looked up to find Rick standing in her doorway. “Excuse me?”

  “I know you went to see Ryan Magee this morning.” Rick was flushed, panicked. “Were you telling him about the mortgage papers? Trying to cut a deal with the cops to save your own ass?”

  Anne stood up, a cold fury seething through every cell of her body. “How do you know I saw Ryan this morning?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Were you selling me out?”

  “First of all,” she said, ice coating every word. “It’s none of your fucking business what I was doing with Ryan. Second, no, I was not selling out your sorry ass. Your father has agreed not to go to the cops if we resign and I’ll be writing my letter of resignation as soon as you get out of my office. And third, tell me how you knew I saw Ryan this morning or I will tell the California Bar about the forgery.”

  The air seemed to go out of Rick. He was ashamed, embarrassed. “I had you followed.”

  “What?”

  “I hired Cal Fisher to follow you.” Cal Fisher was one of the private detectives Rogers,

  Middleton and Roberts employed when necessary. “You freaked me out last night, Anne. I mean, my world’s coming apart, losing the house, my job… I thought I’d at least have you. That we were a team, that somehow we’d weather all this together. So when you said you were leaving, I just, I don’t know, got paranoid. I figured you must be up to something so I called Cal and asked him to keep an eye on you. I’m sorry.” Then a light bulb went off in Rick’s head. “Wait a minute. Didn’t I see something on TV about a homicide cop winning the lottery? It was Ryan, wasn’t it?”

  Anne stiffened, feeling caught somehow. “Yes.”

  Rick gave her a cruel smile. “You always knew how to follow the money, baby.” He laughed bitterly. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Get out of my office.”

  He did the opposite. He stepped closer. “Was it all a lie? The years we had together. Did you ever love me or was it just my money?”

  She’d asked herself that question a lot lately and answered honestly. “I loved you. But the rich successful you was a different guy than the one standing in front of me now. You used to be funny, now you’re morose. You were cocky, now you’re scared. I used to cuddle in your arms and feel so safe, now I dread being alone in a room with you. It’s like you’ve morphed into a bad impression of yourself.” Anne could see her words hit home. “You can’t not know this, Rick.”

  “You know, I was hoping you were going to say you never loved me and then I could get on with my life, hating you.” He looked at her, as vulnerable as she’d even seen him. “Now, I guess, I have to hate myself. I’m sorry, Anne. I loved you so much. I loved us. It just all got away from me somehow. And yes, I miss me, too.”

  “You’ll bounce back, Rick. I know it.”

  Neither one of them believed it. “Thanks. And good luck; I mean it.”

  “Thank you.”

  With the saddest smile she’d ever seen, he left.

  Anne watched him go, a little ashamed at the emotional flailing she’d given him. But he’d pissed her off. The nerve, having her followed.

  And then she had a brainstorm. She needed her own PI. Anne sat down, opened her phone book, found the number she wanted and dialed.

  “Travis Taylor.”

  “Travis, its Anne Rogers, how are you?”

  “Fine, Anne, nice to hear from you.” Travis was a retired FBI agent, expensive but thorough.

  “Travis I need you to run a background check on someone. And I want to know everything.”

  “Absolutely, what’s the name?”

  “Curtis. Detective Syd Curtis. She’s an LAPD homicide detective.”

  “No problem. I should be able to get back to you later today.”

  “Excellent.” Anne hung up. If she was going to have to fight the pretty redhead for
<
br />   Ryan’s affections, Anne wanted to be prepared.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “I’ve paddled by these houses every day for three weeks and never been inside one,” Alice said. She was sitting at Blake’s kitchen counter, sipping a cup of coffee Blake had made her. She had a thick terry cloth towel draped over her shoulders but the ocean chill had passed.

  After getting her a towel and making coffee, Blake had gone back outside and retrieved the kayak and paddle. Now, back in the house, Blake stared at Alice. He’d had countless women in his home but never one washed in from the sea. And though he didn’t know her, there was something vaguely familiar about her. She intrigued him.

  He said, “I grew up in Orange County, south of here, and surfed every day as a kid. And as I sat out in the water, waiting for a wave, I’d stare at the houses nestled into Shaw’s Cove and dream about one day owning my own beach house.”

  “And now you do.”

  “And now I do.”

  “I saw the surfboards on the patio, do you still surf every day?”

  “That’s the funny part. I hardly surf anymore. No time. But from time to time I force myself to take an afternoon off and paddle out.”

  “I’d love to learn. I grew up in Denver. Not too many gnarly waves back there.” She laughed. “But it sure looks like fun.”

  Blake hated teaching people how to surf. It was a lot harder than it looked so it took forever, and most people totally spazzed out, never getting to their feet. But the prospect of teaching this blonde in the red bikini to surf excited him. “Maybe I could teach you sometime,” he said.

  “That would be great,” Alice said, getting off the stool and roaming through the large living room. It was comfortable with wood floors, a plush leather couch, and two overstuffed leather side chairs. They faced the huge picture window featuring a delicious view of the ocean. “And is it everything you dreamed about? Living here, I mean?”