Wild L.A.

by Tripp Ellis

  It was a sight to behold.

  The name of Jack's band in lights, gracing the same marquee as countless other bands that had built the foundations of rock 'n' roll.

  Jack soaked up the view with pride. He took a picture of the marquee. “The rest of the band's gonna be here tomorrow. I'm going to put their asses to work selling tickets. I want this to be a sold-out show. Standing room only."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "I have ideas," he said with a devious grin.

  27

  "Let's go inside and check it out," JD said. “I want to get a feel for the place."

  We crossed the street and strolled to the main entrance. Music from a live band spilled onto the sidewalk. JD nodded at the bouncer and marched in like he owned the place, his long blond hair flowing behind him. The bouncer clearly mistook him.

  Inside, the crowd was thin. The band thrashed around on stage. They weren’t very good.

  Jack took a deep breath, trying to absorb the essence of the venue. "You can just feel the history in this place."

  "The ghosts of rock 'n' roll past," I said in a slightly mocking tone.

  Jack scowled at me.

  He regarded the venue as stepping into a cathedral. A place of worship. A shrine to the gods of rock.

  We moved to the bar, and Jack ordered us both a glass of whiskey. The bartender slid the drinks across the counter, and Jack paid the tab. I think the bartender would have given us the drinks free. In this venue, and the dim light, Jack's resemblance was remarkable.

  "Looking good," the bartender said. "Have you lost weight?"

  Jack smiled, playing along. "I have, and thank you for noticing."

  JD had been keeping himself fit in the wake of our bet.

  We mingled through the club and searched for local talent. Though his mind was preoccupied with Sloan, it didn’t keep JD from looking for a good view. But the band on stage didn’t have much draw, and it was slim pickings among the groupies.

  After a few songs, JD had his fill.

  We left Sour Mash and headed east on Sunset, back toward the hotel. There was still a good hour left until closing time. More than enough time to get into trouble at the hotel bar. We hadn’t traveled more than a few steps when JD pointed up to a billboard that loomed above the boulevard.

  My jaw dropped, and my brow lifted in surprise. “I don’t even want to know what that cost you.”

  JD shrugged and smiled. “Sometimes you’ve got to spend money to make money.”

  The billboard featured Wild Fury in full ’80s get up, looking like glam rockers. Teased hair, eyeliner, bandanas, studded bracelets, and lots of leather. It listed the date of the show, and the venue, along with the band’s website.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  A text buzzed through on my phone. It was from Isabella. It contained images of Detective Paxton, along with his file.

  I briefly glanced over it as we kept walking, my head buried in my phone. It seemed that Chuck Paxton was just your average, ordinary vice cop. He had shot a few people in the line of duty, but they were all deemed within departmental protocol. He was divorced and remarried. It’s tough being a cop’s wife. Especially a vice cop’s wife. He’d served in the army, and had been on the job almost 15 years.

  We made it back to the hotel and stopped in the bar for a drink. I had a few questions for Marcel, but he wasn't working this evening.

  There was a good size crowd, but not shoulder to shoulder. We were probably only there 15 minutes when I got a text from Lyric. [I just got a disturbing phone call.]

  [What happened?]

  [I hate to be that needy girl, but do you think you could come by my house? I'm a little freaked out.]

  [Sure. Where do you live?]

  She texted me the address.

  I didn't think this was a dramatic ploy to get me to come see her in the middle of the night. And even if it was, I can't say that I totally minded.

  "I gotta run," I told JD. "Something freaked Lyric out."

  A quizzical look twisted on Jack's face.

  "She's been getting threats. You going to be okay on your own?"

  JD grinned. "I'll manage."

  "Don't do anything Sloan wouldn't approve of," I teased.

  He gave me a sour look.

  I scheduled a Zoomber and left the bar. The driver whisked me up into the hills, winding through the canyon roads. We headed up Benedict Canyon, then turned into a neighborhood. The driver pulled to the curb at 10062 Hillview Drive.

  I hopped out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was a brown slatted fence that surrounded the property. The two-story home was sleek and modern. It looked like it could have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright or John Lautner. There was a mix of concrete and wood. Palm trees towered overhead, and foliage ensconced the house.

  It was a nice place.

  Either the reporters in this town made a lot of money, or Lyric had other sources of income.

  We were just a few blocks away from Cielo Drive. The location of the infamous Manson murders. The original house had been bulldozed, and a new mansion was built in its place. I could see it from where I stood. Though the murders happened over 50 years ago, it still gave the place an eerie vibe. Every year, on the anniversary of the gruesome event, aficionados made the pilgrimage to the former residence and held candlelight vigils.

  I walked up the driveway to Lyric’s home and rang the bell. Her little red Ferrari was out front.

  It was hard not to stare at the sharp lines of the exquisite car.

  A few moments later, Lyric pulled open the door and ushered me inside with nervous eyes.

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  "I got a strange call. An ominous voice said you were warned. Then they hung up." She trembled with nerves. “Somebody knows I’m still digging into this case, and they don’t like it." She paused. "Do you want a drink?"

  I shook my head. "I've had enough."

  "Thanks for coming. I'm glad you're here." She gave me a hug.

  "No problem,” I said, squeezing her back. I could feel her tremble.

  She broke free, and I followed her into the open living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the backyard and the stunning swimming pool, which was illuminated with underwater lighting. The home was like a little oasis.

  "This is a nice place,” I said. "And that’s a really nice car in the driveway."

  "The perks of being a studio brat."

  I arched a curious eyebrow.

  She told me her dad was a big-time movie producer. She rattled off a list of hits that he had produced. He passed away a few years ago and left her with a sizable fortune.

  "The news gig is what, like a hobby?" I asked.

  "I'm not even going to begin to say it's tough growing up in the shadow of someone who was extremely successful. But it does set a high bar. I'm trying to make my own way in the world and to make a difference. But I also have a soft spot for Ferraris and fine architecture."

  "How you spend your money is your business."

  She smiled. "It is, isn’t it?" She paused. "I feel a little embarrassed for dragging you all the way up here. Maybe it's not that big of a deal. But after my tires were slashed, I'm a little skittish.”

  "Don't be embarrassed. These people are obviously capable of murder. What time did the call come in?"

  Lyric looked at her recent call list and told me the time.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Isabella. I gave her Lyric’s cell number and asked her to trace the call.

  Isabella texted back a few moments later. [Burner phone. Somewhere in West Hollywood. Benedict Canyon and Hillview Drive.]

  A wave of concern washed over my face.

  "What's the matter?" Lyric asked.

  "That call you got came from just around the corner."

  I moved to the entrance foyer and peered out through the sidelights that framed the door. With concerned eyes, I surveyed the street.

  My h
and twisted the deadbolt. I pulled open the front door and marched down the driveway.

  "Where are you going?” Lyric hissed in the doorway.

  I reached the street and glanced in either direction—I didn't see anyone.

  After a moment, I moved back to the house and shut the door behind me as I entered the foyer. Lyric twisted the deadbolt, and I moved through the house, securing the perimeter, peering out windows, scanning the backyard, assessing threats.

  “You must have rattled somebody’s cage,” I said. “Who have you been talking to?”

  28

  “Oh, so this is my fault?” she asked with her hands on her sassy hips.

  I chuckled. “No, it’s not your fault. But if you can tell me which ant pile you’ve been poking, maybe we can figure out who’s behind the threats.”

  “Whoever killed Mia Sophia is behind the threats,” she said.

  “We’ve established that,” I said.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Detective. I’m glad you’re on top of it.”

  “Is that why you called me over here, to get on top of it?” I asked, stepping toward her.

  “No,” she protested with a sparkle in her eyes. “I mean, if you were to insist…”

  Our lips were inches apart. I reached my hand around and grabbed her by the small of her back, pulling her into me. Our mouths collided. We melted into one another, desire swelling.

  After a pleasurable moment, we broke for a breath of air.

  “I swear, I didn’t invite you over with an ulterior motive,” she said. “I really am concerned.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  Her face crinkled. “What? No. This is California.”

  “Do you know anything about Chuck Paxton? Vice detective, LAPD?”

  She shook her head.

  “I ran into him when I was investigating Bhodi Hendrix.” I filled her in on the details.

  "I don't care what Detective Paxton says, my source has never been wrong. If she says there were traces of fentanyl in Mia’s blood, I believe her."

  "Who is your source?"

  Lyric shook her head. "No. I can't tell you. I will not violate that trust."

  "Your source may be in danger. That's the most damning piece of evidence you’ve uncovered so far. A third-party report that conflicts with the official autopsy… that's troublesome for quite a few people."

  Lyric squirmed uncomfortably for a moment. She bit her bottom lip and worry creased her face. "I'm only telling you this because I think you're right. My source is a forensic biochemist that works in said third-party lab. She’s been a valuable source for a number of years. She's always spoken to me under the condition of anonymity. When you live in a town where celebrity overdoses are a common occurrence, it helps to have an inside source that can sort fact from fiction."

  "She could lose her job for sharing that kind of information with you."

  "Hence the reason I keep my sources secret."

  "And how are you able to get this information?" I reconsidered the question. "On second thought, I don't want to know." I took a deep breath. "Call your source. Now!”

  Lyric’s brow lifted. "Now? It's almost 2 AM."

  "I think your source deserves a heads-up."

  She bit her lip again. "You're right.”

  Lyric pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number. It rang a few times and went straight to voicemail. "Hey, it's me. I know it's late. Call me as soon as you get this. I've been getting threats, and I think you might be in danger, too."

  She ended the call and slipped the device back into her pocket.

  "Where does the biochemist live?" I asked.

  Her face twisted with a quizzical look. "Why? You want to go over to her place in the middle of the night?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, I do."

  Lyric hesitated for a moment. "Okay. I'll drive. She's just over the hill in the Valley.”

  Lyric grabbed the keys to the Ferrari, and we moved to the front door. I surveyed the driveway through the sidelights by the door—it looked clear.

  My palm wrapped around the grip of my pistol, snatching it from its holster.

  Lyric set the alarm to the house, and I pulled open the front door. The barrel of my pistol swept the area as I scanned for threats.

  We hurried to the Ferrari, and I climbed into the passenger seat. The dash was black leather, and the bucket racing seats were Bordeaux red. The full-leather door panels were black and red, and there were generous helpings of carbon fiber and aluminum trim throughout the interior cabin. The GT-style steering wheel looked like it belonged in a race car, and the tachometer face was painted in racing yellow. The famous prancing horse of Ferrari adorned the center crest of the steering wheel. The air-conditioning vents looked like thrusters on an FA-18 super hornet. The fit and finish were second to none. Handcrafted perfection.

  When Lyric cranked up the V12, it roared like a caged beast. With the press of a button, the hardtop roof folded away like some type of alien transformer. The 812 GTS looked like a rolling shark with aggressive lines and a front face that could eat anything on the road.

  Lyric eased the car forward, angling the nose to just the right degree to get out of the driveway without scraping the aero-kit against the street. She gunned it once we were clear, and the acceleration thrust me against the bucket seats that fit like a glove.

  The exhaust popped and rattled.

  Lyric liked to drive fast.

  This thing could carve up canyon roads like a serial killer slicing through teens in a horror flick. We twisted through the hills, the exhaust note echoing through the canyon. The night air whipped around the cabin, and the gloomy glow of the night sky hovered above. The lights of the city made it too bright to see more than a few stars.

  I figured JD would be envious. We didn't have twisty canyon roads back in Coconut Key. No place to push a precision automobile to its limits in quite the same way. One mistake here and you'd be into the side of the mountain or, perhaps, someone’s pool.

  We crested the ridge, wound our way down Mulholland, then made our descent into the San Fernando Valley. With every turn, the seat bolsters held my body in place, and the safety harness tightened around my hips and chest. This wasn’t a wimpy four-cylinder turbo-hybrid. This was a V12 monster—ready, willing, and able to devour the road.

  Lyric followed the instructions of the sat-nav, and with a few twists and turns, we pulled to the curb in front of the biochemist’s house.

  I climbed out of the low-slung car and closed the door behind me. My eyes scanned the area. I advanced up the walkway to the front door, and I already knew there was a problem.

  29

  The home at 14555 Antelope Ridge was a midcentury modern one-story ranch style with elegant lines. The street was on an incline, and the front lawn was more of a mound than a yard. It was landscaped with robust foliage that could survive the dry months. A wispy Desert Willow presided over the smaller shrubs. There were frosted glass panels in the garage door. The stepped walkway, lined with concrete garden boxes, led to a recessed entryway. Wall sconces illuminated the area. They were the only lights on.

  There were two tall double doors, though one of them was just for show. The functional door was slightly ajar.

  Who leaves their door ajar at 2 AM in Los Angeles?

  Nobody.

  I drew my pistol and crept forward with caution.

  The door was a modern design with multiple, narrow, horizontal panes of frosted glass. Someone had busted one of the panes, reached their hand inside, and twisted the deadbolt.

  I nudged it open gently, and the hinges creaked. A sprinkling of frosted glass sparkled on the floor, catching the faint light from a streetlamp across the street.

  The home was dark.

  "Stay here," I said to Lyric.

  Her worried eyes glanced around, surveying the area. I don't think she was too keen on being left on the porch alone. She also wasn't too keen on stepping into the dark house.

  I used
a small tactical flashlight on my keychain to illuminate the way. The shards of glass crunched under my feet as I stepped into the foyer, my pistol leading the charge.

  Lyric hovered in the doorway, her head on a swivel.

  The beam of my flashlight swept across the living room as I entered, illuminating the white leather couch, the glass coffee table, and the flatscreen display. In the hallway that led to a bedroom, the beam raked across a body.

  I could only assume it was the biochemist.

  She lay on the tile, lifeless. Her hair tousled, and her limbs contorted at an unnatural angle. Crimson blood pooled the tile around the body. There was no motion in her chest. She wasn’t breathing. The biochemist was long dead.

  I moved to the body, careful not to step in the pool of blood. I touched her skin with the back of my hand. The skin felt several degrees below normal.

  I backed away and returned to the entrance.

  Lyric’s quizzical eyes surveyed me. I answered her gaze with a grim shake of my head.

  "Oh, my God! What happened?"

  "I don't know. She was shot twice. Call 911."

  Lyric pulled out her phone, and her frantic fingers dialed 911. She stammered, “I’d like to report a homicide."

  She gave the emergency operator the details and the address.

  It took longer than you would think for the authorities to arrive.

  An ambulance arrived first, followed by the red and blue lights of a patrol car. The EMTs assessed the situation and quickly determined there was nothing that could be done. The patrol officers secured the crime scene and waited for the medical examiner.

  An officer asked us the standard questions.

  A black, unmarked Dodge pulled to the curb, and Detective Paxton hopped out. He marched up the walkway and shook his head when he saw us. "You sure do get around, don't you?"

  I shrugged.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I was worried about my friend,” Lyric said. “She didn't answer the phone when I called. We stopped by to make sure she was okay.”