Wild L.A.

by Tripp Ellis

  "I don't mind taking this one slow."

  "When are you coming out?" I asked.

  "Not sure. I’ve got some stuff to do around here. I'll probably fly out in the morning."

  "Give me your flight details when you have them, and I'll have the driver pick you up."

  "You getting into anything interesting out there?" JD asked.

  "I found a place you'd love. At least, the old you would love. I'm not so sure about the new you. It might be too exciting."

  "What do you mean the old me? I haven't changed."

  I chuckled. "Are you even allowed to go to strip clubs anymore?"

  JD scoffed. "It's not like I'm in a relationship. I'm in pursuit. I have no restraints."

  "Not yet."

  "Please, you know I cannot be caged. I'm a wild animal that needs to roam free,” he said dramatically.

  I rolled my eyes and told him I'd talk to him later.

  I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and went for a jog around West Hollywood. I got quite a few honks and catcalls—not from whom I was looking to get catcalls from, but a compliment is a compliment, I guess.

  The hills made it considerably more challenging than the flats of Coconut Key. By the time I returned to the hotel, my body was drenched with sweat.

  I took a shower, changed into a Di Fiore suit, then headed down to the dining room for dinner. It was a modern take on classic American cuisine. I ordered the New York Steak Frites and a glass of wine—a grilled New York strip with an herb-butter shallot bordelaise sauce and french fries. The steak was tender and juicy, and the fries were crisp. It was hard to go wrong with a dish like that.

  There was a subtle note at the bottom of the menu that reminded patrons not to take photos within the restaurant. It was usually lined with celebrities. There was an Oscar-winning actress at the table next to me having a discreet dinner with a gentleman I didn't recognize. That was par for the course around here.

  After dinner, I ambled to the bar and leaned against the counter. I gave a nod, and the bartender moved to me. "What can I get for you?"

  "Are you Marcel?"

  He nodded.

  He had curly dark hair, a thin mustache, and a trimmed goatee.

  "You were working the night Mia Sophia died,” I said.

  "Yeah, but if you’re with the press, I'm not talking."

  I flashed my shiny gold badge. "I'm investigating the case."

  "Look, I told the cops everything I know."

  "Just a few follow-up questions."

  His face tensed with discomfort. “Look, I only served her two drinks. I don't know what she had before she got here or after she left. If you want to know anything else, you can talk to my lawyer."

  He started to turn away.

  "Off the record. I'm not trying to get you in trouble or held liable for what happened."

  Marcel hesitated.

  "Who was she with that night?"

  Marcel eyed me for a long moment.

  “While you’re thinking about what to say, you can pour me a glass of whiskey."

  Marcel grabbed a bottle from the well.

  “No. The James Burke Reserve.” I told him to put it on my tab.

  Marcel grabbed the bottle of top-shelf liquor, spun it around, and poured a glass. He slid the smooth amber whiskey across the counter, and I gave a nod of appreciation.

  "She came in by herself. Ordered a drink from me, and she sat at that booth back there," he said, pointing. “She waited there for a few minutes, then she met with Desmond Ross."

  I lifted a curious eyebrow. "Who's Desmond Ross?"

  Marcel was stunned at my ignorance. His eyes widened with disbelief.

  12

  "Desmond Ross is one of the biggest producers in Hollywood," Marcel said.

  "Does he come in here a lot?" I asked.

  Marcel shrugged. "I guess so."

  "What was the context of their conversation?"

  His face crinkled. "Do you think I can hear what they were talking about from here?"

  "Body language speaks louder than words. Were they getting along? Were they having a fight? Was it tense, or casual?"

  Marcel thought about it for a moment. "I guess it looked a little strained. Honestly, it was a busy night. I wasn't really paying attention."

  "Did Mia look to be coherent that night?"

  His eyes narrowed at me. “I wouldn't have served her if she wasn't." He hesitated, then admitted, "I thought she might have been a little coked up. But that's not unusual around here."

  "Did you see her leave the bar?"

  "I didn't. It was pretty crowded that night."

  "I remember. I was here."

  He looked at me, surveying my facial features. "That's right. You do look familiar. You were here with Chloe-C and that guy from that ‘80s band… What's his name?"

  He’d mistaken JD. I went along with it. “Yeah. You've got a good memory."

  A glimmer of recognition flickered in his eyes. He had a better memory than he was letting on.

  "I'm staying in the hotel. If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, let me know."

  "Sure thing," he said.

  A sultry redhead with emerald eyes and porcelain skin pulled up to the bar next to me.

  I was a sucker for redheads.

  "You must be Tyson Wild,” she said.

  "You must be Lyric Stone."

  We shook hands.

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," I said.

  "Likewise, Deputy Wild."

  I nodded to the empty booth in the corner where Mia Sophia had once met with Desmond Ross.

  Lyric ordered a whiskey, rocks from Marcel before we left the bar.

  A woman after my own heart.

  We slid into the comfy seats of the curved booth. The bordeaux red lighting made the bar seem illicit and sinful.

  "I assume I passed your background check?” I said.

  "I checked with your Sheriff Daniels."

  "And?"

  "He had relatively good things to say. But he did give me a warning."

  I lifted my brow. "Oh, really?”

  "He told me not to let you break my heart."

  I chuckled. "And how did you respond?"

  "I told him I don't have a heart to break."

  I chuckled again, lifted my glass, and we toasted.

  "So, you think Mia was murdered?" she asked.

  "I'm not ruling out the possibility. What can you tell me?"

  Lyric shrugged. "I can tell you she was dating Zach Ward. But they broke up recently."

  "Who's Zach Ward?"

  "You certainly aren’t a pop-culture aficionado, are you?"

  "It's not on my priority list."

  "He's the lead on that hit TV show The Unstoppables."

  "Never heard of it."

  She chuckled. "You are not from around here."

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "You should. This town lives, sleeps, eats, and breathes the business. Actually, it's kind of refreshing to speak with someone who isn’t involved."

  "I hate to disappoint, but I am involved."

  She lifted a curious brow. "Oh, really? How so?"

  "Now I'm beginning to wonder about your pop-culture acumen. The Bree Taylor project…"

  A wave of recognition flashed in her eyes. "You're that Tyson Wild."

  "I am. Guilty as charged."

  "So, you do multimillion-dollar Hollywood deals and moonlight as a deputy sheriff in a small beach town?”

  "Volunteer."

  "Giving back to the community. I can respect that."

  "Call it an obsession."

  "Truth, justice, and the American way?"

  "Something like that."

  "Let me guess… Former military?" Her eyes narrowed, sizing me up. "Maybe I'm reaching, but I'm going to say Navy SEALs."

  "Among other things. Either you’ve done your homework, or you have a hell of an intuition. And I don't think you have the securi
ty clearance to do the homework."

  "Sounds serious, and intriguing." There was a delightful sparkle in her eyes.

  Her eyes weren’t bad to look at. Not bad at all.

  "So tell me about Zach Ward, and why they broke up?”

  "Who really knows what happens between two people? But I'm sure the paparazzi photos of Zach with Tricia Marlowe didn't help their relationship."

  "Who is Tricia Marlowe?”

  "Another up-and-comer. You might recognize her from The Zone."

  "I rarely watch TV." I paused. "What do you know about Mia’s relationship with Desmond Ross?"

  Her eyes filled with potential stories to tell. "Desmond launched her career. She wouldn't have gotten the new series without him. He was executive producer." Lyric leaned in and whispered. "Now, I don't have any confirmation on this, but… word is that she met Desmond through…” she chose her words, “less than reputable means."

  "Nikki Griffin."

  Lyric looked impressed. "I see you do your homework as well."

  "I don't suck at my job."

  She measured my response. "I like a confident man."

  I smiled. "Good to know."

  "I thought you weren’t looking for a date.”

  "I'm not."

  "Good. Because you are so not my type.”

  I grinned. I knew that game. “And what is your type?"

  She hesitated coyly. "Not you."

  I smiled again, seeing through her protest. “I spoke with Nikki Griffin, but she wasn't very forthcoming.”

  "Not surprising." Lyric paused. "Look, it's all rumor and speculation. I've never been able to get concrete proof. And you know how this town is… People start rumors to sabotage a competitor’s career. Who knows if there's any truth to it. The goal is to place doubt in the mind. And sometimes that doubt can linger for an eternity. Just ask Greg Richards."

  There were awful rumors swirling around about the famous actor and had been for years.

  "Nikki didn't confirm that Mia had ever worked for her,” I said. “But she didn't deny it either. And she wasn't keen to talk about it."

  “Nikki's got enough dirt to bring just about everyone in Hollywood down. I can only imagine the headlines if Nikki ever went public with the names in her little black book. Maybe that's her insurance policy?"

  “You mentioned on the phone that you were getting a little pushback," I said.

  "That's one way to put it." Lyric took a deep breath. "My house was broken into, my laptop was stolen. My tires were slashed. A note was left on my desk to quit being so nosy."

  "I'd say that's pushback."

  "I dropped the story. I'm all about breaking news, but I'm not too keen on ending up face down in a pool, or cut up in an alley." She let out a deep exhale. "I gotta hand it to you, you’ve got balls. This investigation of yours might end up pissing a few people off. People you probably don't want pissed off."

  I smirked. "I'm used to upsetting people. I like to think of it as a special skill."

  "Everybody's got a gift, don't they?"

  I grinned again. "Indeed."

  I lifted my glass, and we toasted. I watched her wrap her plump lips around the glass and finish the whiskey.

  "Where can I find Zach Ward and Desmond Ross?"

  She rattled off a list of bars that they frequented, and she promised to text me Desmond's office address.

  Her parting words were, “Be careful, Deputy Wild. You seem like a decent guy. Those are already in short supply."

  13

  I had some time to kill. The clubs on Sunset wouldn't get happening until 11 PM. I figured I would swing by Skyline, Opal, Prism, and the Crescent Club—all places Lyric said that Zach Ward frequented.

  Since Jack was coming into town tomorrow, I figured it might be a good idea to stock up on liquor. The minibar prices were exorbitant, and it didn't make sense when there was a liquor store just down the street. Even though the studio was picking up the tab, it seemed wasteful.

  I left the hotel and walked down Sunset. Cars buzzed up and down the boulevard. The night brimmed with possibilities, and the denizens of Hollywood would descend from the hills and soon be hitting the clubs.

  The door chime rang as I pushed into the liquor store. I nodded at the older man behind the counter. He was thin with gray hair, saggy eyes, and rosy cheeks. He looked like he hit the bottle pretty hard after closing time. Maybe even before. I’m sure he put the employee discount to good use.

  There was nobody else in the store.

  The shelves were lined with rows of whiskey, rum, vodka, and tequila. The center aisles were filled with wine racks, mostly from California vineyards.

  I perused the selection of fine whiskey and aged rum. Two bottles would do the trick. I didn't want to carry back a heavy case of whiskey.

  The door chimed again as two men entered.

  I casually glanced at the door, and I didn't like what I saw.

  I didn't like it at all.

  They weren't really men—two boys, judging by their size and frame. Black ski masks concealed their faces, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what they wanted.

  In a flash, the clerk found himself on the business end of a shiny silver semi-automatic pistol.

  "Give me the fucking money!"

  The clerk raised his hands in the air, cautiously, then slowly moved to the register.

  The two thugs may have put effort into concealing their identities, but the dipshits wore brightly colored shirts that were easily identifiable. The thug with the silver pistol wore a yellow basketball jersey with the number 8 on it. His comrade wore a purple jersey with the number 21.

  Purple swung his pistol toward me. The barrel trembled slightly. “Don’t fucking move! Be cool, and nobody gets hurt.”

  I set the bottle of whiskey on the shelf and raised my hands in surrender.

  "Hurry up, motherfucker!” Yellow commanded, his weapon turned sideways, aimed at the clerk in poor tactical form.

  The clerk opened the money drawer and snatched the cash. He pulled out fat stacks and set them on the counter. $20s, $10s, $5s, and a lot of $1s. The total haul was $600 or $700. Fear swelled the clerk’s eyes, and rage boiled under his skin.

  Yellow grabbed the cash and said, “Have a nice day, motherfucker!"

  He darted for the door.

  Purple backed away from me, spun around, and followed.

  BANG!

  A deafening blast rattled the liquor store. Smoke wafted from the barrel of a 9mm. The clerk had grabbed a gun from underneath the counter and squeezed the trigger.

  Purple smacked the tile floor and groaned in agony, crimson blood staining his jersey.

  The door chimed as Yellow sprinted out. His sneakers smacked against the sidewalk as he took off running.

  Purple writhed and wailed.

  I dashed across the liquor store to the boy and kicked his pistol out of reach. I dropped to my knees and applied pressure to the wound. I shouted to the clerk, “Call 911!”

  He stood there for a moment, stunned, still aiming the pistol at the downed thief.

  "Call 911!"

  He hesitated for another moment, then dialed emergency services.

  Red blood seeped through my fingers as I tried to stem the incessant tide spewing from the boy’s thoracic cavity. The warm liquid pulsed with the beat of his heart. Every second grew more precarious. "Hang in there, kid."

  The kid’s eyes filled with panic behind the ski mask. He and his buddy had probably been doing this kind of thing for a while without so much as a scratch.

  Today his luck ran out.

  “That's the third time in four months those little pricks have hit the store," the clerk growled.

  I had no doubt that he was more than willing to put more bullets into the kid. I could understand his level of frustration.

  "How does it feel, ya little shit?" the clerk shouted at the thug. "You ought to think twice about pulling a gun on somebody. Not too fun being on the
other end of it, is it?”

  14

  I did my best until the EMTs arrived. They took over and stabilized the kid, then loaded him into the back of the ambulance.

  When they pulled his mask off, I could see that the kid was 14, maybe 15 at most.

  I stood on the sidewalk, watching as the EMTs closed the rear doors. They scurried around to the passenger compartment, then sped away with the siren blazing.

  The police hadn't arrived yet.

  My eyes caught sight of the yellow jersey across the street. Number 8 stood on the corner, watching. He wasn't wearing a ski mask any longer, but there was no mistaking him. My eyes locked with his, and he took off running.

  Horns honked as I darted into the street, crossing Sunset, chasing after him. I must have looked like a maniac, my suit crusted with crimson blood.

  I ran down a side street, and I saw Yellow veer into an alleyway.

  When I rounded the corner, he was at the far end of the passage, near the dumpster. He dashed left on the sidewalk and disappeared down the next block.

  I gave up and headed back to the liquor store. The kid was fast, and I was wearing dress shoes.

  Red and blue lights flickered across the storefront as I returned. A patrol car had arrived, and officers were interviewing the clerk. Curious looks twisted their faces as I stepped to the storefront.

  “Who the hell are you?” an officer asked.

  I identified myself as a police officer and explained the situation and my involvement. I gave a brief statement, and they requested the security footage from the clerk.

  The officers looked bored.

  This was routine.

  I was sure they had no intention of doing anything about it. I gave Officer Weaver a description of the kid that I chased into the alley. He noted it, took my information, and that was the end of it.

  The officers climbed back into their patrol car, killed the lights, and pulled away from the curb.

  “You should have let me kill that son-of-a-bitch," the clerk muttered.

  "I'm sure you'll have another opportunity," I said dryly.

  I pushed into the store and made my way down the aisle. I grabbed two bottles of whiskey and brought them to the counter. The clerk rang me up, and I was on my way.

  You’d think that walking down the Sunset Strip in a bloody suit, holding two brown bags of liquor, would cause an inordinate amount of stares. But nobody paid any attention to me at all.