Read Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Online
Authors: M.Z. Kelly
Myra
pushes down the images from her past. The psychiatric hospital becomes a distant memory as she moves up the rapper’s stairway with her sisters. The electric buzz behind her eyes is still there like a match waiting to light a fuse.
When they reach the
upper story landing, Myra pauses, savoring the moment before she opens the door to the maid’s bedroom. She turns the knob and the door creaks open.
“Who is there?” the housekeeper calls out.
The hooded women don’t bother answering. They work quickly, tying the maid’s hands and feet, pushing a rag into her mouth.
When they finish,
Myra kills the sound machine, snaps on the lamp next to the bed, and bends down to the woman. She wants her to see the leather mask, the dark eyes that stare at her. It’s all part of the plan. She whispers to the maid, watching as the horror registers on the elderly woman’s face.
After they’re finished
terrifying the maid, they leave her alive and go back down the hallway to the superstar’s bedroom. Before opening the door, Myra turns to Chloe. She sees the young woman’s eyes through her mask. There’s something dark, unknown there. Myra isn’t sure if it’s excitement or terror, or both.
The
y push open the bedroom door and find Karma’s rapper boyfriend asleep in the bed with his clothes on. Myra isn’t surprised, given the drugs and alcohol that Love Dawg consumes. The handsome young man doesn’t even stir when they turn on the light and bind his arms and legs with leather straps to the bed posts.
After he’
s properly prepared, Myra reaches into her duffle bag and pulls out the camera. She takes her time setting up the telescoping tripod, making sure that the angle is just right. She turns on the camera and looks through the viewfinder as the rapper finally begins to stir.
Once their victim is fully awake,
Myra uses the carving knife to cut away his clothing. Her knife rakes against the singer’s dark skin drawing blood. As the blood oozes up from the wounds, the man screams. A smile parts her lips when the realization about what’s happening fully registers on his face.
“What the fuck?” he says.
Myra shakes her head, sees the terror as he takes in the dark masks of the women circling his bed. “Sorry, lover boy. Tonight we’re not here to fuck.”
Rose
begins to chant in a soft, rhythmic beat that she repeats. “We honor the one who is chosen. His will shall be done.”
Be
hind Rose, Myra sees that Henna has her arms folded. Her eyes are fixed on Chloe. Even through the mask, she can see that the homely woman’s lips are twisted into a sneer.
Myra
turns to her young apprentice. “Chloe, come here.”
The young woman slowly moves forward, her body trembling.
“Take the knife,” Myra demands, holding the blade up to her.
The girl’s quivering hand moves up, finding the handle.
Rose is behind her now, helping move Chloe toward the man who is writhing in his bed, straining against the leather straps and begging for his life.
“We are one,” Rose says to Chloe. “We are sisters.”
Myra raises a hand, silencing Rose. She turns to Chloe. Her words are tender, the words of a lover. “The time has come, Chloe. Show me that you love me.”
Chloe’s shuddering hand moves up, the silver blade gleaming in the overhead light. The camera takes it all
in as the singer screams and pleads for his life, “Please...God no…don’t do this.”
Myra
watches as Chloe’s hand comes down… It suddenly stops. The knife drops, clattering to the floor.
Before
Myra can react, Chloe turns and runs from the room. Myra turns to the other women and hisses, “Go after her, now. She can’t get away.”
The electricity behind
Myra’s eyes crackles and then explodes, lighting the fuse of rage inside her. She picks up the knife and turns back to the rapper. The singer’s terrified eyes fix on the blade as she holds it up to him.
Myra
reaches up, pulls off the mask, and shows him her face. “Nice to see you again lover boy.” The blade comes crashing down, exploding through her victim’s chest and turning the world red.
“My sweet lover,”
Myra says, feeling Azazel’s presence inside her as blood spurts from the dying man’s heart. “My life is your life.”
“Just so you know, you don’t get the rawhide chew if you attack me,” Jack Bautista said, coming out of the shadows. He
had a bouquet of roses and a bottle of wine.
I called Bernie off.
“You talking to me or the dog?”
We were on the sidewalk in front of Clyde’s Appliance Universe. I rent the apartment above the store that’s owned by Natalie’s husband. It’s not your typical living quarters, but it’s comfortable, convenient, and, most of all, cheap. It’s all I could afford after my divorce.
“I take it back,” Jack said. “You attack me and you not only get the chew, but the flowers and the wine.”
He came closer. I saw him taking in my green outfit and hair. I wanted to pull off one of the manhole covers on the street and crawl in.
Before he could say anything about how I belonged in a swamp or a mass grave or a public sewer, I cut him off. “Don’t say another word until we get upstairs.”
I unlocked the door and had him and Bernie follow me into the apartment, where I disappeared into the bedroom for ten minutes. I lost the dress, showered, ran a brush and some conditioner through my hair, and slipped into a tee shirt and pair of jeans. It wasn’t great, but I was no longer green, frizzy, and looked like the living dead. I now had wine and flowers and Jack.
“Saw the circus on TV,” Jack said, handing me a glass of wine after I found a vase for the roses and tossed my mail, consisting of bills I couldn’t afford to pay, into a wicker basket.
We settled
in on the sofa. Jack had on brown khaki pants and a blue sweater. The light scent of his cologne was delicious—something earthy with a hint of vanilla. I looked up into his eyes. They were like deep pools of caramel syrup—eyes that I sometimes lose myself in.
“Looks like your mom raised both hell and the dead tonight,” he added.
“Something like that.” I sipped the wine, breathed, and felt some of the day’s stress finally melting away. “Karma’s manager took the bullet. I’m not sure if she was the intended victim, though.” I sipped some more wine. It was a chardonnay, cold with a wonderful oak texture. I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon.
“Given the high priced talent in the room, it doesn’t seem likely,” he said.
“That was my thought, but Skully has different ideas.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“What do you mean?” I tipped up my glass again.
“He’s been all over the news, doing interviews.”
“What?” I set my glass down and flipped on the TV. They had a late night rerun of the local news. We watched for a couple of minutes. They showed a parade of news vans and reporters down the street from Mom’s house.
Then Skully came on, interviewed by Haley Tristan, one of Hollywood’s entertainment reporters. I hate Tristan, almost as much as I hate Skully. She’s a loud-mouthed, arrogant witch of a woman who always has her slutty as
sistant, Cher, at her side.
“We’re following up on several aspects of the investigation,” Skully said
, his big mug filling the screen. “We have no reason to believe at this time that the entertainer known as Karma was the intended target of the shooting.”
“We understand that her manager was shot,” Tristan said. “Does the department have any information about a possible motive?”
“We’re looking into several leads, but I’m not at liberty to discuss anything about a motive at this time.”
“What about astrology?” Tristan asked. “Was that a factor in what happened tonight?”
I saw the perspiration pop on Skully’s bald head, his face flush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Isn’t it true,” T
ristan went on, “a séance was in progress when the shooting occurred and a tarot card was found in the street near the residence?”
I watched as Skully mopped his brow, a vein pulsing in his head. “I have no comment at this time.”
“Shit,” I said, turning off the TV. I stood up and paced around the room. “How in the hell does Tristan know any of that?” I was so angry I wanted to scream.
“You know how these things go,” Jack said. “The department has more leaks than the Titanic.”
“Yeah, and those leaks will eventually sink us all.”
A
key piece of evidence had already been compromised. In any homicide investigation some information is held back, used to determine a possible motive and suspects. After what I’d heard from Skully and Tristan, I knew we were already on a sinking ship, barely treading water.
Jack came over to me with more wine. “Let it go for the night, Kate.” He kissed me and I felt warm all over. I sipped the wine again, my head already spinning from the alcohol.
We went back to the sofa where things got a little more heated. When Jack surfaced for air and more wine, I gave him the key to my apartment. “So that you don’t have to wait on the steps, next time,” I explained.
He took the key. “Suppose I walk in, find you with another guy.”
“Anything’s possible. I know this fellow who’s pretty strong and awfully hairy.”
“He sounds a little threatening.” His lips found my
neck.
“He’s very protective…
even has a jealous streak.” I started to moan.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We continued to kiss until I stood up, took his hand and we headed for the bedroom. I saw that Bernie was still working on the rawhide chew in the corner of the living room.
“My guy can sometimes bite, too,” I said.
“Maybe he’s a vampire.”
I pushed the bedroom door closed behind us
. We came together, breath and lips and hands, as we stumbled across the room. We headed for the bed, clothes flying off.
“Ever heard about something called, Monkey Penis?”
I said.
Jack pul
led me down to the bed. “No, but I’ve heard that some remarkable things can be done with a banana.”
Jack’s phone rang
as the gray light of dawn seeped into the bedroom. I heard him saying something about a flight reservation before he came back to bed.
I glanced over at the alarm clock. It was just after seven. I groaned, thought about my promise to meet Charlie and Pearl at the Dawg pound, as Charlie called it. Jack put an end to that thought. It was almost eight by the time I regained enough of my strength and senses to look at the clock again.
Then I remembered his earlier phone call. “You leaving town, Bautista?” I was still trying to catch my breath.
“The sheriff said to be gone by sun up or there’d be a hanging. Looks like y
ou just might have got me strung-up.”
“
Yeah,” I said, amidst a tangle of sheets and blankets. “Heard they’re forming a posse, coming after you.”
Jack
came closer, kissed me. I sat up, bunched my pillows and pulled the sheet up around me. I knew I should head for the shower, but instead asked, “So what gives?”
He leaned over on one arm, looked at me, then looked away. “I got a job offer, Kate. Old friend from Homeland Security gave me a call. He wants to meet in DC.” He looked back at me. “I couldn’t say no to meeting with him tomorrow, but I haven’t said yes to the offer.”
I exhaled, my gaze drifting away. “I’m not sure what that means.” I looked back at him. “For us.”
He smiled. “Maybe a coast to coast relationship. Different cities, hotels, airports. Might be exciting.”
“Yeah, unless the posse gets you first; strings you up.”
My phone rang. I pulled the sheet up with me, covering myself as I went for the phone on the dresser.
A coast to coast relationship
. It was the last thing I needed. After a year of being single, not trusting, I’d finally found someone. Now, as quickly as we’d gotten together, it all seemed to be slipping away. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have anyone in my life. The department was full of older, single women with thickening waistlines, expanding hips, and nicknames I tried to ignore. I saw myself as one of these women, wearing a green dress with frizzy gray hair, as I picked up the phone.
I listened for a moment as Charlie came on the line. “Be right there,” I said,
ending the call.
Jack must have seen the shock on my face or maybe jus
t the despair. “What is it?”
I looked over at him, pulling the sheet tighter around me. “Karma’s fiancé, Love Dawg. He was murdered last night.”
***
Bernie and
I found Charlie, Pearl, and a half-dozen police cruisers at Love Dawg’s estate. The gate was open. I flashed my badge to one of the uniforms and parked Olive in the expansive driveway.
I found Charlie and Pearl just inside the sprawling modern residence. Skully wasn’t there yet, and the press hadn’t been alerted. I was thankful for small favors.
“The crime scene is upstairs,” Charlie said, his tired brown eyes finding me. “But first, the housekeeper has an interesting story to tell.”
I followed him into the living room wh
ile Bernie waited with Pearl and one of the responding officers. I was introduced to a sad looking woman of about fifty. She wore a robe and clutched rosary beads with both hands.
“Ms.
Simmental, this is my partner, Detective Sexton,” Charlie said. “Can you tell her what you told me happened last night?”
The housekeeper looked at me as I bent down to her, nodding encouragement. Even before she spoke, it was obvious that she was terrified.
“Four women come into my room,” she began in broken English. “I no harm nobody so I don’t know why they bother me. I asleep. They wake me. Tie my hands and feet, place rag in my mouth.”
“Did they say anything?” I asked.
Her gaze drifted away. She whispered a prayer, looked back at me. “One woman, she tell me something bad. She say she is the…angel de la muerte.”
I looked at Cha
rlie as he translated what I’d already guessed. “The angel of death.”
After further discussion,
the maid said she was sure the intruders were all women, even though they were dressed in black and wearing some kind of masks. The housekeeper had freed herself early this morning and found Love Dawg’s body in his bedroom.
After that, I couldn’t understand much of what she
tried to tell us about the murder scene because it was all hysterics and prayers. All I knew was that the crime scene wouldn’t be pretty.
I slipped on gloves and paper booties before Charlie led me up the stairs to the rapper’s bedroom.
We moved through the doorway and I pushed down the bile rising in my throat. The scene was worse than anything I could have imagined.
We found Trevon Jackson, the rapper’s real name, in
the sprawling master suite in his bed. He was naked and it looked like his clothes had been cut off. His arms and legs were tied to the bed posts with leather straps. There was blood everywhere.
I
examined the body, seeing there were numerous cuts on the victim’s arms, legs, and pubic region, including one that had severed his penis. The detached organ had been either tossed or fallen onto the floor. Several stab wounds had punctured the victim’s chest and stomach, the most prominent being a wound in his lower chest where a large carving knife remained embedded.
I took a moment and counted six separate entry wounds, but knew there were probably more. I
then focused on the blood spray covering the wall and ceiling behind the victim. There was writing on the wall. Something, probably an artist’s paintbrush, had been used to write the words in the victim’s blood.
“My soul is burning,” I said, reading the words out loud
.
Charlie pointed out the tarot card on the floor below the blood and writing. “Same as the one you found in the street outside your mom’s house. No writing on the card, just the wall.”
Charlie and I met up with Pearl back in the living room as the SID technicians arrived and set up. I waved at Bob Woodley and saw that he was again with his youthful assistant who wore her standard black outfit.
“Maybe one of us should notify Karma before the press gets on this,” Pearl suggested. “We’re going to need her alibi and statement, anyway.”
“If Skully allows it,” I said.
As if on cue, the police captain came rushing through the door. He didn’t acknowledge any of us, but headed straight upstairs to the crime scene. Ten minutes later, he joined us in the living room.
“So, this looks like it’s somehow tied to the Nordquist killing,” Skully said.
“You oughta be a detective or a psychic, in
stead of an idiot.” Okay, I just thought it, didn’t say it.
“Anyone have any ideas about the messages the killer is leaving?” Skully asked, looking from Pearl to Charlie, and then finally, probably reluctantly, to me.
“It could be lyrics,” I suggested, remembering what I’d contemplated as I drove to the crime scene.
“What?”
“Lines from a song. Maybe something Love Dawg or Karma wrote.”
“Could we be more professional about this, Detective?” Skully asked. “Call the victim by his given name, Trevon Jackson.”
“Sure and I’ll call you, Elmer.” I’d said the word sure, but bit my tongue before going on.
“Anybody ask Karma about this lyric angle yesterday, based on what was written on the other card?” Skully asked.
“Nordquist was seen as the intended victim, yesterday,” I said. “We had a different focus.”
Thanks to you, asshole.
“Then you fuck
ed up,” he said. His steely eyes then swung over to Charlie and Pearl. “You all fucked up. You should have contacted Jackson yesterday and interviewed him. If we’d done some basic police work, maybe none of this would have happened.”
“Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” I said. “Yesterday it took a lot of convincing for you to let the uniforms come by the estate and try to talk to him.”
A skinny, yellow-nailed finger came up and wagged at me. “Watch what you’re saying. We already have a leak to the press. I don’t think you want to add insubordination to your indiscretions.”
I felt my blood pressure rising; no, boiling. “Are you saying that I had something to do with talking to the press?”
Skully pursed his thin lips together, opened them. “Time will tell, won’t it?” He turned to Charlie and Pearl. “You two can do the notifications and talk to the girlfriend.” His gray eyes swiveled back in my direction. He gave me a yellow smile. “You have exactly two hours before Detective Sexton makes a statement to the press.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Skully motioned to the window. I saw there were several cars on the street now, including some press vans. “The commander of media relations is on vacation. I’ve been authorized to talk to the press, but I’m delegating that duty to you since somebody’s already tipped the press off…somebody who likes to talk…somebody who can’t keep secrets. Since you like to talk, I’m going to let you make a statement to the press, but…”
“I won’t…”
“You will,” he said, cutting me off. “And that’s a direct order. However, you will not give any details about this case, that includes telling the press about tarot cards, song lyrics, writing in blood, masked assailants, and the fact that someone cut off the vic’s dick.”
At that point, I stomped into the kitchen, opened a drawer, got out a carving knife, and chased Skully around
the room until he screamed and ended up with the anatomy of a girl.
Okay, so my fantasy life was starting to get the best of me. It was either that or me saying something that would get me suspended like, “You’re out of your mind, motherfucker.”
While I waited for Charlie and Pearl to make their notifications, I tried to stay away from Skully. I spent the time with Bob Woodley and his assistant.
While on my way up the staircase, I used my iPhone to Google the words the killer had left at both crime scenes, but came up with nothing worthwhile. It crossed my mind that maybe the lines were from a poem or maybe something out of
a novel.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything in the way of prints.” I said to Woodley when I got back into the bedroom.
“The scene is pretty clean, but we’re still dusting. They no doubt had gloves, but there are some footprints in the blood and, of course, we’ll look for any trace and DNA evidence. There could also be hair samples.”
“They cut it off after he was dead,” Chandra Martin said. She
stood over the body, shooting pictures.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“His dick.” She stopped shooting for a moment and met my eyes. “As we all know, that area is very vascular.” She chuckled. “Based on the lack of blood in that region, it looks like they castrated him postmortem. I’m sure the coroner will confirm it when he gets here.” She went back to work, shooting pictures. “First thing I wondered about.”
“Thanks for that,” I said turning to Woodley
, my brows knitting together.
Woodley finally spoke up. “Chandra, please stick to the processing. I’ll go over any issues with the detective.”
“Sorry,” she managed.
Woodley left the room for a minute. I noticed that Chandra Martin
had on a short sleeved black blouse. Tattoos covered both her arms. I walked over, studying them for a moment. Several of the designs appeared to be symbols of death; the grim reaper, crosses, and something that looked like a memorial.
“My brother died,” she said, looking up from her camera, apparently noticing my interest. “Most of them are for him.”
I met her dark eyes. “How did he die?”
“He was in a gang in Boston. Hyde Park Locals. Crossed the wrong guy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all water.”
I didn’t understand what she meant. “I’m sorry?”
“Under the bridge. It’s all water. Life goes on.”
Woodley returned to the room with the coroner, Chuck Samuels, who’d just arrived. As Samuels set up, Woodley used a Luma Light to examine an area where several small markers had been placed in the blood spray.
I walked over, but kept my distance as
he worked. I turned back to Chandra, thinking she’d said something. Then I realized she was humming a tune. It was something about burning or yearning.
I stopped and moved back toward the young woman. I listened for a moment. “My soul is burning,” I heard her say. I realized that Chandra Martin was singing the words that the killer had left at the crime scene.
“Chandra, that song you’re humming,” I said, “where did you hear it?”
She laughed. “Yeah, like you don’t know.”
“Chandra, this is important. I don’t know. Tell me about the song.”
She put down her camera and walked over to me. “Love Me or Kill Me.”
“What?”
“Never leave me, always believe in me.” She must have realized then. “You really don’t know, do you?”
I shook my head.
She motioned to the words, written in blood. “It’s the second line in the song from Fleshded, on their latest album. It was just released.”