Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

We all turned as a door opened and Special Agent Brian Dressler entered.
Byron Ellington introduced the computer expert, giving us a rundown of his impressive credentials.

The FBI agent
stood about six feet tall with a solid build that filled out what looked to be an expensive Italian suit. He had brown hair and eyes, and spoke in a manner that immediately instilled both intelligence and confidence.

“Last night we had our agents in Atlanta interview Billie Bathgate, the lead singer of Fleshded,” Dressler began. “Bathgate wrote the lyrics to the song, ‘Love Me or Kill Me.’
”

Dressler motioned to the lyrics
projected on the screen. “As that interview progressed, our agents learned the song Bathgate wrote contains a cryptogram. As you may know, a cryptogram is a sequence of encrypted text where substitution ciphers are used to solve a puzzle.”

I saw
Charlie scratching his head. Dressler had probably already lost part of his audience.

“To solve the puzzle in
a typical cryptogram,” the agent continued, “letters are substituted for numbers and vice versa. Probably the most famous cryptogram of all time was one sent by the Zodiac killer that has never been solved. Fortunately, our cryptogram is far easier to decipher.”

Dressler took a moment and used a wireless device to manipulate what was on the overhead projector before continuing. “According to Bathgate, the lyrics of, ‘Love Me or Kill Me,’ were writt
en as part of a puzzle intended to be a marketing campaign for their song.

“The encryption an
d subsequent letters were developed as an interactive series of clues that allowed players to engage in an Internet game of hide and seek, all designed to promote the band’s music.”

Dressler worked his laptop for a moment and then went on. “These lyrics are a duplicate of the ones printed on the CD case for the band’s latest album.” He hit a button, magnifying the lyrics. “As you can see, some of the letters in the lyrics have a shadow number attached to them. Each number, in turn, corresponds to a letter of the alphabet. For example, the letter ‘s’ in
silence
has a shadow number six. When you put the entire sequence of numbers together with the corresponding letters from of the alphabet, you eventually get this.”

He hit several keystrokes and
we saw the highlighted letters from the song lyrics and corresponding numbers begin to line up on the screen. Those numbers, in turn, corresponded with the letters of the alphabet until the screen spelled out something Chloe Bryant had told us about:

FORBIDDENWORLD

Every doubt I’d once harbored about the FBI went away in that moment. I knew we were looking at an entirely new dimension of the case, one that we’d never have found without the handsome computer expert standing before us.

Dressler turned away from the screen and addressed us again. “Before we move on, I probably need to explain that what we’re looking at is something called an Alternate Reality Game or ARG. These games have been used for a variety of reasons in recent years, including marketing products and the creation of puzzles for on-line players who immerse themselves in ARG worlds.

“These players form an interactive virtual reality, where the game unfolds in a variety of ways, including websites and interactive real time events, such as social gatherings. The web allows players to put together the clues to the puzzle, solve mysteries, and share a story on-line through various forums and chat rooms. It’s all intended to create hype or a buzz about a particular event or product.”

Dressler moved to his computer as Skully asked, “This ARG game that you’re talking about. Was it created by Bathgate?”

Dressler shook his head. “There are several companies and individual providers for these games. They’re hired controllers, employed to create and control the game. The controller monitors what’s happening within the game, so that clues can be provided and the game can progress in a mutually satisfying way until an outcome is achieved.”

The FBI agent
made a couple of keystrokes and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet the controller for, ‘Love Me or Kill Me.’ His name is John Brighton, but you may know him by his moniker—Azazel.”

After another click of his mouse, we were all staring up into the face of a well-dressed, dark-haired man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He looked like he might be a businessman or maybe the CEO of a company
sitting in an office that overlooked the New York City skyline.

Charlie leaned over and whispered to me, “Doesn’t look like the devil
’s disciple to me.”

“A handsome devil,” I said.

“We are trying to determine if John Brighton is a real person or not,” Dressler said. “His photograph and name were provided to Bathgate at the time of his hire, but, so far, we haven’t been able to identify him as being a real person with an actual business. We think he may be the fictional creation of someone who signed on as the controller of this game and convinced the singer that he had an actual business based upon information on his website.”

We spent the next ten minutes watching as Dressler moved us through a series of screens, each screen containing a clue that moved to another screen, all part of the ARG that John Brighton or Azazel had created.

“In the case of, ‘Love Me or Kill Me,’” Dressler went on, “we learned that the controller co-opted or took over the game to create a world of his own. Bathgate said that Brighton was fired when the game started to move in directions the band had no control over.

“
These screens each contain a clue or mystery that moves the player deeper into Azazel’s Forbidden World. They are breadcrumbs that have led us into a virtual world. This is a world that Azazel very much wants us to see.”

We followed along as Dressler walked us through additional screens, some containing nursery rhymes with encoded messages. Several screens had famous landmarks and buildings that dissolved into a series of numbers when the cursor moved across them. We also saw dark images of ghoul-like creatures that walked through a cemetery with headstones containing clues.

Finally, after at least a dozen screens, we arrived at a scene that moved the viewer inside what looked like a monastery or gothic church. It was here, in this last scene, that Dressler explained where we had arrived.

“We’ve all been invited to dinner,” the FBI agent announced, a cryptic smile slipping across his face. “Azazel is our host and this is his version of,
The Last Supper
.”

We collectively leaned forward, holding our breath as we examined what looked like a computer version of Leonardo de Vinci’s famous painting, only with considerable alterations. Instead of Jesus and his disciples sitting behind the table, this version of
The Last Supper
had Azazel or Brighton at the center of the table. A beautiful woman with flowing dark hair sat beside him.

“Guess who came to dinner?” I whispered to Charlie and Pearl.

“Myra,” Pearl said.

Dressler continued, “When I said we’ve all been invited to dinner, I wasn’t kidding. This scene has been created specifically for us. Azazel and his Predators know we’re here. He’s
invited us all to play his game. He’s out there somewhere, watching and waiting. This is his dinner party and we are his guests.”

“Predators?
” Skelly said. “Who are you talking about?”

I barely heard what Dressler said in response. My eyes were scanning the subjects seated at the table in the painting. Instead of apostles, I realized I was looking into faces that I’d seen before, faces of our murder victims, but transformed by costume and circumstance to give the impression that they’d somehow stepped across a five hundred year old threshold in time.

Then I realized something else. A woman sat at the far end of the table. Azazel had his arm outstretched, pointing at her as if to say she was being selected for execution or maybe something worse.

“Holy shit
,” Charlie said, apparently recognizing the woman’s features at the same time I did.

The woman we were all looking at sat apart from the others.
She had a shocked expression, no doubt horrified at the realization that Azazel had selected her. The woman in the painting had green eyes and brown hair that seemed slightly unkempt.

The woman Azazel had chosen as part of his game of torture and murder was me.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The building from where Myra and Rose watch the cop’s apartment above the appliance store is across the alleyway. It’s been a cool, cloudy day, but the second-story office in the industrial building is warm and inviting. The space is tastefully furnished. It looks more like a tropical island retreat than a partially abandoned office building.

The room has a blue and white slipcovered sofa and rattan tables. There
’s a king-sized bed with carved bamboo posts. The walls are hung with travel posters. Potted palms and ferns accent the decor. It all suggests a sunny, tropical locale. It’s been chosen carefully—by Azazel.

“I think we need to give Azazel and the Predators something special tonight,”
Myra suggests to Rose after turning on the camera and joining her in bed. “Something they will never forget.”

Rose giggles
. She turns to the camera, smiles and brushes a hand through her long blonde hair. “That sounds good. Let’s make it memorable. Just like that old song, let’s give them something to talk about.”

The younger of the two women
touches her mouth, wetting her fingers, and running them over her half-exposed breasts, beneath the black satin and lace top. She moves her hand down, feeling herself. She moans.

Myra
is wearing a red and black micro-mini skirt, an X-harness over her bare breasts, a leather bondage belt, and fish-net stockings. Her hair is a knotted turquoise fall, and, as always, she has her jewelry, including the silver stud in her tongue.

The costume is designed to give the viewer the impression that she
’s Rose’s sex toy. Myra smiles when she thinks about that. Toys are made for games and, while the afternoon has been fun, the time for games is over.

The leather bag is underneath the bed.
Myra reaches down, bringing it up. She pauses, looking into the camera, before turning to Rose and smiling.

“What
’s in the bag?” Rose asks, giggling.

Myra
runs a hand suggestively over the case. “Something special, just for you.”

“Can I see it?”

“Not yet. First, we need to get you in the mood.”

The two women come together, slowly, tentatively their lips
and tongues find one another, before moving deeper, more passionately into their lovemaking. Myra’s lips move down, finding Rose’s breasts, the metal stud in her tongue lightly brushing against her raised nipples.

As the session progresses,
Myra moves lower, eventually finding Rose’s wetness. The younger woman’s body begins to undulate. She brushes the blonde hair from her face as her back arches and she moans.

Myra
drinks in the sweet arousal as Rose’s soft cries resonate through the room. The blood begins to roar, pulsing in Myra’s ears as they move together. A rhythm eventually finds the women. Myra knows when to thrust and then to slow, changing tempo as the pulse of their coupling beats like a drum while the camera takes in everything.

When
Myra knows that Rose can stand it no longer, she reaches into the leather bag. Even as she continues making love to the woman, she slips the leather noose around Rose’s neck.

“What’s…happening…I don’t...” Rose
’s words drift away as swollen, aching flesh turns into a moan of desire.

Myra
smiles, pulls the leather strap, slowly cinching it around Rose’s neck. The device begins to suck up the oxygen in Rose’s body like a flame inside a glass bottle. Myra hears the gasping, the struggle for breath, even as Rose moans, lost in the ecstasy of a sensation that has now gone beyond the swell of earthly desire.

Myra
pulls the strap tighter. Rose’s body tenses for a moment, but the fight for air slips beneath the hypnotic rhythm of a panicked sweetness that’s like a craving for honey and air. Finally, her mind fogs, the light fading away as the last bit of oxygen is pulled from Rose’s lungs.

“Give into it
,” Myra says, pulling on the leather strap as hard as she can now. “Let it take you away…go into the darkness…”

Myra
feels a final shudder as the young woman’s body collapses beneath her in an orgasm of death. She waits a few beats before releasing the leather strap. Rose’s body is limp, lifeless. The killer’s dark eyes move up and find the camera lens. A final suggestive smile and the performance is complete.

Myra
tosses the death noose onto the floor and kisses her dead sister on the forehead. She pushes the lifeless body off the bed and shuts off the camera.

After walking to the windows, she peers through the blinds and watches as the investigators finish up with the cop’s apartment across the street. She knows that the crime scene people have gone through everything in the apartment, looking for clues about the unsolved murders and the threat against the detective.

It’s late when the cops finish their work. Myra gathers up her duffle bag and heads across the alleyway.

T
he building’s alarm system is killed before she uses the apartment key Rose got from the old man who owns the building. The elderly fool was so taken by her that he didn’t even question Rose’s story about needing the key for the cleaning staff to enter.

Once inside,
Myra works quickly, drenching the apartment in gasoline and planting the blasting caps. She plans to videotape the explosion for Azazel and the Predators from the office building across the street. The images of the female cop burning to death should be spectacular, a fitting punishment for the bitch having saved Chloe.

When she’s back in the alley,
Myra hears footsteps and disappears into the shadows of night. She waits in the alleyway, watching as a man comes down the street toward the apartment.

While she doesn’t know who the man is, it takes one look for
Myra to know what he does for a living.

The guy’s a cop.