Hollywood Assassin - A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by MZ Kelly

  “Bon Bon,” Clark said. He rushed over to the celeb, who looked like he’d just walked out of the shower and thrown on a robe. He was probably too big for regular clothes.

  Other patrons moved his way, creating a mini-stampede to meet Wolf Donovan’s son. As far as I knew, Bon Bon was famous for appearing on a reality TV show. His contribution: sitting around and eating the other contestants’ food.

  “Hope I can deal with this,” Robin said to me. “The premiere of Tidal Wave is tomorrow night. We’re still on for the after-party.”

  “Looks like Clark’s leading the parade.” An entourage had formed. The Bon Bon line snaked through the club.

  “He gets a little star struck. I just hope I can keep him out of The Cavern.”

  “Cavern?”

  “Donovan’s estate has a swimming pool that runs underground—lots of music, dancing, and naked bodies writhing around.” A thin smile. “Just your typical backyard barbeque.”

  I was warning Robin about keeping Clark away from drugs when two uniforms entered the nightclub. I excused myself and met up with them at the club’s entrance.

  After a few moments, I returned to the table and told Robin, “This should be interesting.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just delivering a package to a guy named Roger.”

  We sipped our drinks and chatted for a few minutes until the officers reentered the club with their suspect in handcuffs. I walked over and inspected the package that the younger of the two cops held up.

  “Test was positive for meth,” the officer said.

  Roger gave me his best angry, sultry look.

  I couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “In case you get lonely tonight, ask if you can room with a Mr. Wiener. If you get lucky, maybe he’ll show you his package.”

  I returned to my table and finished my drink. After more chit-chat, I told Robin I had to call it a night. As I was leaving, he mentioned that Sara Johnson would be calling me about her mystery dating event.

  “Maybe I’ll meet another guy named Roger,” I said.

  I drove home and parked in front of the closed appliance store. Natalie waved to me from inside. She was with her elderly husband, Clyde. As I walked toward the store, Natalie opened the door, greeting me. “Hey, sweet pea.”

  Clyde was on a ladder, tying balloons to a post. He said, “Big sale starts tomorrow. Everything is twenty percent off. Let me know if you need a new washer.”

  He teetered, reminding me of a chubby teddy bear up a tree.

  Natalie steadied the ladder. “Always the salesman. How was your evening?” Before I could tell her about Roger, she added, “I’ve been meaning to ask you if I could go on one of them follow-arounds with you.”

  “Come again?”

  “You know, follow you around at work. I’m thinkin' I might wanna do some real detective work someday. Need to get more of a feel for it. See if I’ve got enough snoop in me.”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing, but you can call the station. They’ve got a ride-along program. You could go with a uniformed officer for a shift.”

  “That’s it, a ride-along.” Natalie leaned over and whispered, “Do you think you could recommend an officer that looks like Johnny Depp?”

  “Sure,” I lied. Most of the cops I knew looked more like Charlie. “Why don’t you come up for a nightcap? I’ve got a little story for you.”

  Natalie turned to Clyde. “Back in a few, sweetie.”

  “But we’ve got the sale tomorrow,” Clyde protested, again teetering.

  Natalie held his ladder a moment longer. “Keep it up, Clyde, and you’ll be selling Maytags to Saint Peter.”

  Up in my apartment, Natalie and I shared a glass of Riesling while I told her about my evening.

  “Wish I was there.” Natalie lowered her tone. “Coulda used me King Henry voice and convinced Roger I was your partner.”

  “I seriously doubt you could convince anyone you’re a guy.” My phone rang. It was Pearl Kramer.

  “Kate, I’ve located our soap star. His name is Roger Diamond. He’s a small time porn producer who filled in on Beautiful Lies a couple of times. Got an address and phone number.”

  Pearl gave me the number. I told him I’d call him back. A couple minutes later, I had Roger Diamond on the line.

  “We’re looking into the death of a woman you knew named Cassie Reynolds, Mr. Diamond. I’d like to come by and ask you a few questions.” I waited, expecting he wouldn’t cooperate.

  “I…I think that’s a good…idea. There’s…s…some things…I need to ttt…talk about…”

  “Mr. Diamond, is everything okay? I can come over this evening if you’d like.”

  When he came back on the line, his voice was heavy, barely audible. “Tomorrow night…best…come round…tt…ten.” The line clicked dead.

  I called Pearl back, told him Diamond sounded drunk, but that he’d agreed to meet with us the following night. When I hung up, Natalie was clapping her hands.

  “Hooray! More snoop work. Do you think I should wear a trench coat and bring Clyde’s pistol?”

  “No guns, Natalie. Promise me.”

  “Oh, all right. But I do have a coat I think would be just the ticket.”

  I had a vision of her dressed like Sherlock Holmes.

  Natalie made a slicing motion with her hand. “Maybe I should bring a knife. I’m pretty good with a knife. I once got a little tiddly and cut a trog named Johnny Utley’s ball bag after he tried to get me to play burp the worm, but…”

  “Natalie, no guns, no knives, and no slicing up anyone’s testicles!”

  I made her do a pinky swear before we said goodnight.

  Roger Diamond was on my mind as Bernie and I got ready for bed. He’d been drunk, but his voice also had another quality. I’ve encountered it before when suspects are desperate and running from something or someone.

  Chapter Ten

   

  “Let me get this straight,” Kane says into the cell phone. “You have no idea where Bautista’s hiding, and we still have to deal with the female cop.”

  It’s after midnight. The orderly has left him alone in his room, with the phone, after extracting a commitment for more drugs and money. Down the dimly lit hallway, there’s a drone of hospital equipment and the muffled voices of overnight staff.

  The man on the line hesitates, says, “We think he’s still in the area. As for Sexton, she would have come forward by now if she had any information. She’s also under investigation for interfering with the arrest.”

  “You think he’s still in the area.” Kane’s hushed voice shakes with anger. “I want him dead. Now. No loose ends.”

  “Okay, relax…we’re doing everything we can. We already took care of that other matter we discussed.”

  “And the female cop?”

  “She’ll get the message.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “A fatal accident will be arranged.”

  Before ending the call, Kane makes sure that he has his own message across. Bautista is to be dead within forty-eight hours, or he will take the matter into his own hands when he’s released.

  After returning the phone, Kane sleeps until six. He breakfasts in the inmate cafeteria, where he displays all the practiced symptoms of Parkinson’s Dementia. Two hours later, the morning shift orderly walks him to the psychiatrist’s office and leaves.

  Dr. Marsha Wentworth rises, closes the door behind the orderly, and returns to her desk. There’s no eye contact. Her hands shake as she sifts through his file. How ironic.

  It’s been two days since the psychiatrist agreed to cooperate. The terror of finding her daughter’s bloody clothing was all she needed. Fear is a powerful motivator. Wentworth agreed to say nothing and meet him again prior to the parole hearing.

  “I have your report almost ready,” the doctor says, continuing to look down.

  “Almost is not good
enough, Marsha.”

  Her green eyes come up to meet his. She’s been crying. Is she truly convinced there’s no option other than to cooperate? There’s no room for error now. Perhaps a little more persuasion is in order.

  “Let’s talk about your daughter,” Kane begins. He leans over her desk. His voice is now clear and harsh. There’s none of the prior whispered, strained qualities he’s feigned for so long. “Marianne is seven years old. She’s in the third grade at Washington Elementary. Her favorite subjects are spelling and art. At recess she plays with her best friend, Gayle. Your daughter has asthma. If she doesn’t use her inhaler…”

  “Stop, please.” Tears fill the psychiatrist’s eyes. “You already convinced me. Just give me your word you won’t harm my daughter.”

  Nathan Kane reaches over and pats the psychiatrist’s knee. He smiles as she flinches. The shrink is wearing a blue skirt. His big hand lingers on her long, slender leg.

  “I have my people watching Marianne as we speak. One wrong move and she dies.”

  Wentworth cries out again, “Please don’t hurt her! I’ll do anything. I have money, and…”

  “You have my word, Marsha. I won’t harm your daughter if I’m convinced that you will cooperate.”

  The psychiatrist brushes away her tears. “The report is with my supervisor. I can show it to you tomorrow.”

  “Considering the stakes, I expect you will keep your word. Let’s plan on meeting at the same time tomorrow.”

  The psychiatrist stands and begins to walk toward the door.

  “Wait.” The prisoner’s harsh voice stops her. “I said I need to be convinced you will cooperate.”

  She turns, trailing a hand that brushes tears again. “What more do you want?”

  Kane stands. He walks over to Marsha Wentworth. The drawstring on his prison issued uniform is released. The trousers fall to the floor. He takes the woman into his powerful arms, pushing her down onto her knees.

  “You need to be completely convincing, Marsha. Make this your best performance ever. Marianne’s life depends on it.”

  Chapter Eleven

   

  The next evening, I picked up Natalie, and we drove to Van Nuys for our meeting with Roger Diamond. I’d spent the day serving warrants on gang members in Huntington Park.

  As Olive sputtered to a stop, I yawned. “Sure hope this meeting is productive.”

  “If the tosser doesn’t cooperate, we might have to lean on him,” Natalie said.

  My snoop sister, true to her word, had dressed for the part. She hit the street wearing a gray London Fog trench coat and a double-brimmed black-and-white hat. Maybe she was expecting Jack the Ripper. Maybe she’d pull out one of those curved smoking pipes. Better that than a pistol.

  “Great outfit,” Pearl said to Natalie when we greeted him in front of Diamond’s house.

  The neighborhood was a cluster of smaller older homes, probably built in the 1950s. The street was deserted. Most of the working class inhabitants were probably already in bed.

  Natalie reached into her pocket. I held my breath. “Don’t worry, no weapons, just brought me a lookin’ glass in case there’s some evidence.” She held out a magnifying glass for our inspection.

  I sighed. Maybe bringing Natalie into the case had been a mistake. Roger Diamond’s interview could be a game changer, increasing the stakes. I would never forgive myself if anything bad happened to my youthful friend.

  I heard a low-pitched whine and looked down at Bernie. My skin prickled. I bent down, my hand finding my partner’s head.

  “What is it, Bernie?”

  He nuzzled me, offering up his wet nose. The cry persisted.

  I stood back up and said to the others, “Bernie only acts like this when something bad is about to happen. He has a sixth sense of sorts.”

  Kramer bent down and reached out toward the dog. After some more muzzle love, Bernie settled down. “Let’s hope we’re not in for an earthquake. Had a dog once that started acting up back in ’91, just before the big one hit.”

  I turned to Natalie. “I want you to wait here until everything is secured.”

  “Oh, stop worrying, Kate. Let’s see if Mr. Big Dick answers the door. If there’s any sign of shenanigans, I’ll hightail it back to Olive and wait, unless you give me a Code Six Adam.” She looked at Pearl. “Copper talk for an officer needs assistance with an investigation, in case you forgot.”

  Pearl tugged on an earlobe. There was a hint of a smile. “Thanks for the refresher.”

  We walked up the driveway. Bernie’s whine came back, cranked up a notch.

  The home was a single story, painted a drab shade of brown and gray. The lawn was dead. Unread newspapers were piled on the porch. A sign on the door read No Solicitors. Maybe this was Diamond’s porn pad, used for filming.

  Pearl rang the doorbell. We waited. There was no answer after a second ring and a knock. He moved to the side yard, returned a moment later and said, “Found a door unlocked. I knocked, but still no answer. Starting to get a bad feeling, like Bernie.”

  The whine persisted. Pearl pulled his gun. “I’ll go on in if you’ll watch my back.”

  I gloved up, brushed back my blazer, and unholstered.

  Natalie’s pupils dilated, she stepped back. “I’ll stay in Olive until you give me a signal.”

  I followed Kramer, with Bernie on his leash.

  Once inside, we worked quickly, giving the rooms a onceover before I stepped outside again. I gave Natalie the all clear signal. She walked up the driveway and met me. I tossed her a pair of latex gloves and said, “Don’t touch anything.”

  The kitchen was full of dirty dishes, untouched for several days.

  Natalie grimaced. “Bloke’s messier than Clyde.”

  Despite the house being deserted, Bernie’s whine continued.

  We found several empty beer cans on the coffee table in the living room. Photographs above the fireplace showed a man, probably Diamond, with a couple different women, maybe actresses. The house had a musty, dirty smell that was familiar to me. Charlie had a name for the odor—felony funk.

  We circled back to the master bedroom, where Bernie’s whine abruptly ceased. He stopped in front of the walk-in closet we’d searched earlier and looked up to me.

  I tossed the closet again. It was full of empty boxes, shoes, dirty laundry. At the back of the closet, I found something else—a dead body.

  “I think we’ve found Mr. Diamond,” I said to the others, stepping back and revealing a subject that matched the man in the living room photographs.

  Kramer was at my side, Natalie right behind.

  I stated the obvious. “Shot through the head.”

  Natalie put it another way. “The bastard’s deader than a bird in a cuckoo clock.”

  Diamond’s body had been wedged into the back of the closet and covered with a blanket, explaining why we had missed it in our earlier cursory search. The body had not begun to decompose, but rigor had set in.

  Natalie looked through her magnifying glass and referenced the entry wound. “Not much of a hole. Musta been a pea shooter. I’ve seen zits worse than that.”

  Pearl pointed to the splatter on the wall. “The exit wound is in the back of the head. That’s where the damage shows.”

  Natalie now saw the brains and blood. “Looks a bit like the time me dad chopped off a chicken’s head. Right mess it was.”

  Guess my snoop sister wasn’t squeamish.

  I did a quick survey of the bedroom after again warning Natalie not to touch anything. The bed was unmade. There were several DVDs and video tapes next to the television, including some X-rated movies. A few classics were also in the stack. Dancing with Wolves. Valentino. Both Oscar winners. Maybe Diamond had harbored illusions about becoming a mainstream filmmaker.

  I was about to leave the room when I noticed a couple unmarked DVDs. On a hunch, I decided to take them with me before motioning for th
e others to follow me outside.

  Back on the driveway, we made plans to meet in a parking lot a couple blocks over.

  After we reassembled at a strip mall, I sucked in some air, tried to focus my thoughts. Our informal investigation into the death of Cassie Reynolds had just become complicated. We now had a dead body and no way to explain our being at the crime scene. If we called it in, I would be up to my eyeballs in more trouble with IAD. I explained my predicament to Pearl and Natalie.

  “How about I call it in anonymously?” Pearl suggested. “We didn’t touch anything, and there’s nothing that can tie us to the scene. RHD can take things from here.”

  Natalie rested her hand on my shoulder, agreeing. “Wouldn’t want you to be in shit-soup and a pile of poop, sistah.”

  I smiled at her, thought about the prostitute, Mo, who had led us to Diamond. “Any luck locating Cassie’s pimp, Maurice Simpson?”

  Natalie shook her head. “He’s more slippery than a snake in a pot of grease. Nowhere to be found, but I haven’t given up.”

  “Guess we owe a nod to Bernie,” Pearl said, running a hand through his fur. My whiney partner gave him a tail wag. Pearl looked at me. “It seems like somebody wants to keep a thirty-year-old secret real bad.”

  I tugged on Bernie’s leash, preparing to leave. “It’s time we shined a light on that dirty little secret.”

  Chapter Twelve

   

  The next day, Bernie and I arrived at Yamashiro’s Restaurant at noon for lunch with Mom and Sis. As Olive rattled to a stop, I glanced at my partner in the rearview mirror. I sighed and said, “Ready for battle?”

  I’d spent the morning pushing paper and heard that RHD caught the Roger Diamond murder investigation. Professional hit. No suspects. No link between Diamond and Cassie Reynolds, far as I knew. Okay by me.

  I checked my hair in Olive’s mirror. Bernie waited. The frizzies, in all their glory, stared back at me.

  “Shit. Why can’t I for once have a good hair day?” I caught Bernie’s reflection. “Is that too much to ask?” He was probably not the best guy for hair advice. My dog is a follicle free-for-all.

  Yamashiro’s was located in the Hollywood Hills above Grauman’s. Because it was on a bluff, it offered great views. To the south was the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, built in the 1920s—Marilyn’s haunt. I’m not sure why the ghost of the dead actress chose the Rosie. Farther west was Rodeo Drive. 90210 meant Fendi, Hermes, Versace. Eastward, the noonday sun lit up the Hollywood sign.