Hollywood Assassin
HOLLYWOOD ASSASSIN
MZ Kelly
Note from the author
This book, like all the Hollywood Alphabet Series Thrillers, contains an interesting Hollywood fact or quote from a famous movie star. As you read, look for the fact or quote, and then look for details about how to win valuable prizes at the end of this book. Contests may be related to information in this book or Hollywood in general. All contests are updated regularly, it’s easy to enter, and the prizes are great.
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Also in the Hollywood Alphabet Series:
Hollywood Assassin
Hollywood Blood
Hollywood Crazy
Hollywood Dirty
Hollywood Enemy
Hollywood Forbidden
Hollywood Games
Hollywood Homicide
Hollywood Intrigue
Table of Contents
Hollywood exploded with the crack of gunfire.
I turned away from the smog-shrouded city of dreams that shimmered like a mirage beyond the shuttered windows of the Pinewood Apartments as Captain Marvin Drake unloaded his Glock-9 on Detective Jack Bautista. The detective, wanted on a murder rap, tossed a bag of groceries, hopped a fence, and sprinted downhill through the gang-infested neighborhood.
I lunged at Drake, pushing his gun away. At the same time, Bernie, my canine partner, strained against his leash and began running in the direction of the suspect, pulling me and my alabaster Gucci blouse through the dirt and grass.
By the time I got to my feet and released the dog, my blouse was ruined, the humidity had turned my hair into a frizz-fest, and Drake was screeching like a fat turkey that had swallowed a wasp. Bautista was already over the fence, disappearing faster than a necklace on a Lindsay Lohan shopping spree.
The big bellied captain did a mad turkey trot toward me. With lots of attitude and bad breath right in my face, he shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Detective Sexton?”
I looked down into an angry face—his complexion more ruddy than usual. Even the wattle of fat spilling out of his collar had turned red. I almost laughed as I watched his comb-over flapping in the breeze. “I was trying to save you from shooting an unarmed suspect in the back.”
“If I hadn’t acted, we’d both be dead!” he spat.
“Bautista was unarmed, walking down the sidewalk in broad daylight with a bag of groceries in his arms. Were you afraid he’d hit us with the pasta or the tomatoes?”
The turkey’s anger became a mad screech. “He was armed, Sexton. You just fucked the pooch.”
Now
I
was getting annoyed, impulse control not being one of my strong points. The elderly captain’s attitude and an October afternoon that was hotter than a pair of Justin Timberlake’s Fruit of the Looms were wearing on me.
“First of all,” I said, fixing my gaze on Drake, “the pooch’s name is Bernie, second I don’t fuck dogs, and third you just made me ruin my $200 blouse.”
I walked away as the LAPD captain’s rant turned obscene. I almost never walk away from a fight. Maybe turning thirty this past year had mellowed me.
I called for backup, knowing that the steamy fall afternoon would soon be an alphabet soup of OIS, RHD, and PMS. Not the best time of the month for me to be dealing with the Officer Involved Shooting Unit and Robbery Homicide Detectives.
While the LAPD clean-up crews were on their way, I walked over to the fence line of the condemned apartment complex. I saw a festering sore of graffiti, rust, and decay. The Pinewood was scheduled for demolition in a few weeks, part of the city’s urban renewal master plan. And none too soon.
I found Bernie pacing at the fence and snatched up his leash, controlling him. I ran my hand over a hairy mop of brown and black fur, the result of a DNA soup consisting of some German shepherd ancestry and an unidentified alien breed. The genetics had also left my hairy partner with a rogue attitude and a healthy dose of sexual wanderlust—just your typical guy.
As I surveyed the perimeter of the apartment complex, my phone rang. The voice on the line was vaguely familiar.
“Thanks for saving my ass, Kate, and tell the captain to calm down. He’s liable to have a stroke in this heat.”
“Jack,” I said, doing a 360 and mentally picturing the Wilshire Division detective who had slipped away from us. Bautista was in his mid-thirties, with black hair and whiskey brown eyes. An easy smile and cool disposition made him a favorite among everyone but the LAPD brass. Before he became the prime suspect in a murder case, the detective had been a smooth talking cop with a reputation to match. “Where are you?”
“Close enough to see your black skirt, white blouse, and lovely breasts.”
Breast man. No surprise. The thought of Jack Bautista seeing me in my ruined outfit made me cringe. I hated being underdressed in any situation, even this one.
“Been awhile, Kate. Too long,” Jack went on. “Don’t suppose you remember that Christmas party a few years back.”
“Hard to forget you wanting to play tonsil hockey with me while my husband was at the bar.”
“You always seemed the athletic type. Besides, old Dougie never did appreciate you. I saw the video.”
“Yeah, it made the rounds.”
I scanned the neighborhood beyond the apartment complex, trying to suppress images of my ex, an assistant D.A. who got caught on videotape in an interrogation room screwing his secretary. One year later, I was left with the memory of an ugly divorce, ruined credit, and the vision of Phyllis—The Squealer—Culpepper playing Doug’s flute for most of the department’s entertainment.
I glanced back at the boarded-up apartment complex. My partner, Charlie Winkler, had arrived and was doing the turkey trot with Drake. Bernie also looked in their direction and shook himself, maybe reacting to the fat bird still in full rant.
“Let’s change the subject, Jack,” I said, turning away from the captain. “If you won’t tell me where you are, let’s talk about Cassie Reynolds.”
When Bautista came back on the line, the bluster was gone. We both knew what was at stake.
“Cassie and I knew each other from my days in vice. Nice kid who was lost; working for a pimp named Maurice Simpson in West Hollywood. I got a call from Cassie last Saturday night. She was anxious to get together, said she had some information about an old case and wanted to talk. When I pressed her for details, she told me that she found out what happened to her father, a guy named John Carmichael. He disappeared almost thirty years ago; the case had gone unsolved. I made arrangements to meet her at the Argyle on Sunset later that night.”
“Don’t tell me…Cassie was dead when you got there.”
“Unconscious, face down on the bed. I was about to call for an R.A. unit when I was hit from behind and knocked out.”
“Explains your fingerprints at the crime scene. What about your gun?”
“When I came to, the hotel maid was in the room screaming hysterically. Cassie was dead, shot through the head, and my gun was missing. I decided I needed to get away and think things through.”
I did another turn, walking Bernie in a circle and scanning the buildings beyond the apartment complex. The afternoon air stirred, picking up the scent of fertilizer. Maybe Drake’s deodorant had stopped working.
“Leaving the scene…probably not the best move in retrospect,” I said. “According to the reports, the maid kicked your gun when she went psycho. They found it under the bed. Ballistics matched it as the murder weapon.”
I heard Bautista take a breath, lower his voice. “All I know is, while I was unconscious, someone used my gun and murdered Cassie, framing me. It was a setup.”
The wanted detective continued with his story while I walked to my car and retrieved Bernie’s water bowl. As my partner slurped away like a drunk at closing time, I remembered something else from the police reports on the Reynolds case.
“I’ve read the reports, Jack. RHD interviewed the girls who work for Simpson. They all say you and Cassie were in a heated argument the week before she died. The speculation was that you two had less than a professional relationship.”
“I was trying to get Cassie to give up the streets. She didn’t have any other means of support; didn’t see how she could survive on her own.” There was a pause before his voice kicked up a notch, something catching in his throat. “You’ve gotta believe me, Kate. There was never anything else going on.”
“Cassie’s pimp,” I said, sensing his desperation, “do you think he could’ve had something to do with her murder?”
“It’s possible. When we track him down and get a handle on what Cassie knew about her father’s disappearance, maybe we’ll find out who killed her and set me up.”
“We? I’d say you have a little problem called a murder warrant. Why don’t you tell me where you are? I’ll bring you in…”
“Not gonna happen, Kate. I’ll work things from this end, but I’ve obviously got to keep a low profile. That’s why I need your help.”
Charlie was walking in my direction mouthing the words, “OIS needs your statement.”
Nodding to my partner, I said into the phone, “I’ll see what I can do. You’ve got my number. Stay in touch.”
I was about to hang up when I saw that the turkey on the sidewalk was still ranting. “A couple more things, Jack. How’d you end up at the Pinewood?”
“An old friend I helped out with a beef once is taking advantage of the free rent before the demolition. He let me stay with him for a few days.”
“What about a gun—you carrying?”
“Never leave home without it.”
“Did you have it out when Drake started shooting?”
“Kate, I was mentally preparing chicken ratatouille and had my hands full of groceries.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
After giving my statement to OIS and assuring the detectives I would put it all in my report, I repeated it for Stan Baker and Alex Kennedy, the RHD detectives assigned to the Reynolds case. They said they’d come by the station tomorrow if they had any further questions.
After the debriefings, I met up with Charlie Winkler on the sidewalk. I noticed that my partner was rubbing his jaw. “How’s the tooth?”
“Gotta go back for more work next week. The guy’s a terrorist with a drill.”
Charlie brushed back thinning dark hair sprinkled with silver. His brown eyes were fixed on me. My partner has only two expressions: a blank stare and something I once thought was brought on by constipation. Over the years, however, I’ve learned otherwise. I call it the “daddy death stare.”
My partner lowered his head and hooded brow, taking on the measured look of a disapproving parent. “Drake is trying to make a federal case outta this, Kate. He’s saying Bautista was armed and…”
“Save it. I just talked to Jack. He had a bag of groceries in his hands. Drake wouldn’t know reasonable force if it bit his fat ass.” More daddy death stare. “He called my cell phone, Charlie.”
I found a clip in my purse and did a twist and tuck of my unmanageable brown hair. I looked down at my partner, who at five foot seven was a couple inches shorter than me and was still giving me the death stare. “Bautista’s probably several blocks away by now. Says he wants to prove he’s innocent before he’ll turn himself in.”
Charlie continued to stare at me. He rubbed his chin and asked, “Why didn’t you guys call the unit? The Warrant Task Force was created for this kind of situation.”
The task force was formed three years earlier thanks to an
L.A. Times
article fuelling political and public outrage over hundreds of felons wanted on warrants, still walking the streets and victimizing the city. Charlie and I were assigned to the unit two years ago and Bernie came along as my partner when I made detective.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to relieve the tension, and glanced down. My nylons were ruined, my skirt had a stain to match my blouse, and bits of Bernie’s brown and black fur were clinging to me.
“Damn it, my whole outfit is trashed,” I said out of frustration. It was one of the few good outfits I had left after my divorce.
My partner started to go on about the taskforce, but I cut him off. “Don’t, Charlie.” My anger was on the rise again as I heard Drake light into one of the OIS detectives somewhere behind us.
I felt compelled to explain the afternoon’s events to Charlie. “When I left the courthouse after testifying on a case this afternoon, I ran into Jerry Eckstein in the corridor. Remember him?”
“Snitch from that big drug case a couple years back?”
I nodded. “We chatted for a few minutes. As I was leaving, I saw that the captain’s car was broke down. I was about to drive past Drake when he waved me down. Recognized me from that police officer memorial ceremony we all attended last spring.
I picked bits of Bernie’s fur off my blouse as I went on. “I told the captain that Eckstein had given me a tip that Bautista might be at the Pinewood Apartments. I said I needed to call the taskforce for back-up. Drake wouldn’t have any part of it. He insisted that we see if there was any sign of Bautista first. Next thing I know we roll in here and the tub of lard goes Terminator on the neighborhood.”
“OIS has already canvassed the area—no witnesses,” Charlie said. He lit a cigarette and shook his head.
From behind us we heard Drake yelling, “He had a gun and I’ll have her up on charges for interfering with the arrest of a wanted felon.”
The big turkey had just put all his weight on my impulse control button. I’ve never been big on diplomacy, but a year spent recovering from a cheating husband and financial ruin had left my tolerance tank on empty. Bernie and I walked over to the strutting loon.
I said it again, this time loud enough for every cop at the Pinewood to hear me. “There was no gun. There was no reasonable force. There was only a big-mouthed idiot acting outside of policy.”
The crazed turkey came close enough to peck me. “I’ll have your badge for this, Sexton.”
From somewhere below me I heard a low growl. I should have reacted to it, but I was too busy fending off the big pecker. Why is it that peckers demand so much attention?