Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller (2 page)

Chapter Three

Myra’s headlights wash over the crouching figure with the dog as her car swerves through the neighborhood and disappears into the mist. A smile plays on her full, perfect lips. The woman had a gun and there was a badge on the dog’s collar. She must be a cop.

Perfect.

Everything’s gone according to plan, but it’s only the beginning. Before the night is over, there will be another death. She will take another step closer to the revenge and life she deserves.

The streets of West H
ollywood recede into the fog as Myra turns off the tiny camera affixed to her lapel and moves through the city. She drives cautiously, making her way past Sunset Boulevard, up Laurel Canyon, and into the Hollywood Hills.

Her older model Chrysler passes a scattering of homes, including an occasional mini-mansion overlooking the city, until it pulls off the roadway. She parks in an empty lot where the car can’t be seen from the street.

Myra checks her watch, her anger surfacing. Where are her sisters? She unconsciously touches the inside of her left arm, running her fingers over the lettering. It’s the same tattoo that her sisters have, a ritual of initiation and commitment. The phrase is highlighted by the branding of skin that has been permanently raised and scarred. The words are written in Latin,
Sorores Sanguinis,
Sisters of the Blood.

After a few minutes,
Myra finally sees the headlights coming up the road. The car turns off and parks in the lot. Rose is driving the stolen station wagon, just as they’ve planned, but she has no patience for the delay.

“Why are you late?”
Myra demands, after rushing over to the open window. Her black leather pants and jacket, the nose and eyebrow piercings give her a hard, angry look.

Henna has already exited the vehicle, coming around from the passenger side to explain. “It’s Chloe. She’s been freaking out. I don’t think she can do this.”

Rose, gets out of the car. Her voice is low as she references their passenger in the backseat. “She’s been crying all afternoon, asking for her mother.”

Myra
glances at the young woman in the backseat of the older model station wagon. The heater in the stolen car is broken and Chloe has found a tattered blanket, wrapping it around herself for warmth. The young woman’s complexion is pale, her eyes downcast.

D
oubts begin to surface. They’ve spent weeks practicing for this night. There can be no mistakes. This time everything is for real. Every move they make will be monitored.

Myra
opens the passenger door, sliding in next to Chloe. She touches the young woman’s arm. Chloe’s gaze comes up to her and she smiles.

Myra
sees the devotion. It’s almost like a child’s love for her mother. At least, that’s what she imagines. She can’t know for sure because she only met her own mother once.

“I want to be sure you’re okay,”
Myra says, sweeping the matted brown hair away from Chloe’s face. “We can’t have anything go wrong tonight.”

Chloe
’s blue eyes brighten as they find her. “I’m ready now. I just…I think my nerves got the best of me when you weren’t here.”

“I’m counting on you.”
Myra leans over, touches the tattoo on the young woman’s arm. She presses her lips to Chloe’s, knowing this is much more than a mother-daughter relationship. The young woman has been carefully chosen, courted, indoctrinated, and has fallen in love with her. It’s all gone according to plan. There is no question about Chloe’s devotion and commitment.

The
women all pile into the station wagon with Myra at the wheel. She drives farther up into the hills until the homes give way to rolling hillsides.

Myra
rakes a hand through her long ebony hair, her confidence growing. Her brown eyes shine cat-like in the darkness as she glances over at Henna and Rose. She sees the adoration in their eyes, knowing they are ready to do anything she commands. Myra isn’t surprised. She is, after all, the Chosen One.

“You should never have brought her,” Henna says, motioning toward Chloe.

The angry words surprise Myra. Doubts again surface. Maybe Chloe isn’t ready?

Henna’s eyes narrow into florid slits.
“We’re just asking for trouble.” She nervously twists her stringy brown hair between her fingers. “She’s terrified.”

Myra
’s dark eyes fix on the homely young woman for a moment. Henna has a jealous streak that surfaces when someone new is brought into the fold. She glances at Chloe in the rearview mirror, seeing her uncertainty.

“It
’s her time,” Myra says, dismissing the concerns. “When the moment comes she will be ready.”

Henna turns and sneers at Chloe, but keeps quiet.

When the station wagon is within a mile of the compound, Myra kills the headlights and slows the car to a crawl. A half-moon is rising just above the hills. There’s too much light. Why didn’t she think about the moonlight? Mistakes are not an option.

“We’re stopping here,”
Myra announces, pulling into a turnout.

She parks behind some dried brush. The fog in the valley below is dense, but where they’ve stopped, the air is clear and cold. The compound is beyond the gates on a bluff overlooking Hollywood. The expansive house appears quiet, even deserted, but
Myra knows that’s not the case.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to walk all the way,” Henna protests.

Myra turns. There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate her features as they change, her pupils turning darker, her unlined face creasing into something predatory.

“Not another word,”
Myra says to Henna, her voice dripping with venom. “You will do as you are told.”

The homely woman jumps at the warning and falls silent, nodding her consent.
Myra watches as Henna’s gaze moves away from her. Maybe her sister has served her purpose. Devotion is one thing. Jealousy that interferes with a planned operation is quite another. It might be time for Henna to have an accident.

As they exit the vehicle,
Myra sees that Chloe has brought the blanket with her, pulling it over her shoulders and wrapping it around her bare arms. Rose, ever the mother figure, is beside her, placing an arm around the younger woman.

Rose’s maternal instincts have come in handy.
Myra met her at a church service where she’d been looking for converts. It took months to gain Rose’s trust, mold her beliefs, and garner her undying devotion. The result has been more than Myra had hoped for. Her all-American good looks, blonde hair, and winning smile have made Rose a valuable ally.

Myra
opens the rear door of the station wagon and pulls out a duffle bag, finding the flashlight inside. She switches on the light and then pulls out the gloves, handing a pair to each of her sisters. “Remember, this goes just as we’ve rehearsed it. No mistakes.”

They move out into the darkness,
Myra and Rose now leading the way with Chloe and Henna following behind. The narrow road is a sliver of asphalt, surrounded by chaparral that recedes into the dark hills.

As they walk,
Myra occasionally turns to Chloe and smiles. It is enough to cause the young woman to pick up her pace and forge ahead.

When they reach the estate, the others wait while
Myra punches a code into the security panel near the gate. It’s the same code that she’s used before when she’s been a guest here.

After the gate swings open, they move inside the perimeter, finding a cluster of acacia trees where they wait. There
’s a soft glow of lamplight from inside the house, but the mansion is quiet.

An hour later, when the lights inside the house go out,
Myra moves out again. She finds the switch next to the electrical panel and disarms the alarm system. When she returns, her face is glowing. A surge of adrenaline courses through her bloodstream like a sexual urge burning deep inside her.

“Glove up,”
Myra says, pulling the green surgical gloves over her long, slender fingers.

While the others put on their gloves,
Myra reaches back into the bag, finding the leather hoods. She slips on her mask and then watches as her sisters do the same.

The masks have been specially made, patterned after someone called, The Executioner, from a video game
Myra plays. She knows the hoods give them a powerful, terrifying look that will be appreciated by those watching.

The hooded women take a step toward the servant’s entrance but then see the lights coming down the street.

“Move behind the wall, now,” Myra orders, ushering the women back into the shadows.

The women slip behind a brick wall and slide down to the groun
d, disappearing into the darkness. Myra sees a car slowing down as it reaches the estate.

Moments later,
a searchlight from the police cruiser snaps on, illuminating the grounds. Myra silently curses, feeling a jolt of electricity arcing behind her eyes. She pushes down the surfacing anger, telling herself it’s a matter of watching and waiting until it’s safe to move out again.

As she waits,
Myra’s gaze drifts up. The stars, like pinholes of light shining through a velvet curtain, dot the night sky. The darkness beckons, the sweet black syrup of night fills her up, soothes her.

Myra
knows that she’s no longer alone. The one who has chosen her is here. She feels his presence, imagines his voice calling to her like a lover.

“Let us wait my beloved,” Azazel says, “until it
’s time to kill again.”

Chapter Four

“We’re leaving,” Karma said after I returned to Mom’s spirit room. “I have a rehearsal in half-an-hour.” She took her FFF by the hand and started for the door.

It wasn’t bad enough that I had to wear green, now I had the role of babysitting a celebrity and something called a FFF. Let’s see, Freakin’ F…never mind.

Vee tossed a card on a portion of my mother’s psychic reading table
not covered in blood. “Call if you need something.”

I blocked their path, pitching my five-nine frame forward and looking down at them. “No. You
’re not leaving. You’re both material witnesses to a murder. Your statements need to be taken and the crime scene has to be processed. When that’s completed, then we’ll see about you leaving.”

Vee took a step closer to me. She had three green dots tattooed over her left eyebrow.
Dots?
It probably had something to do with green power.

“Do you
have any idea who you’re dealing with?” the FFF asked.

“Yeah, a plump lump of gas with a horse face, enough green eye shadow to make a Kimono Dragon jealous, and breath like something that escaped from the L.A. Zoo.”
Okay, I only thought about saying it. Instead I worked on my impulse control and spoke in the cool, calm demeanor of a recently promoted robbery homicide detective. “I’m dealing with a homicide victim. Someone who, ten minutes ago, was a living, breathing human being is now lying there dead. Please respect that fact.”

I must have hit a nerve. Karma began sobbing, tears dripping onto her celadon silk blouse.

“She was like a mother to me,” Karma said. “Harriett practically raised me. Why would anyone do this?”

Vee comforted her celebrity friend, using green tissue from one of the green dispensers that she carried around in her green purse.

Green tissue, purses?
I’m all for green—green energy, green power, green money. I even have green eyes, but these two probably had green toilet paper that they flushed down their green toilets. Why are celebrities so nuts?

I turned away from the two women, catching a glimpse of my reflection in one of the glass doors to Mom’s spirit room. I wanted to throw up.

While I’m usually half-way presentable, thanks to decent features and an earthy skin tone, my new do, a Brazilian Blowout, that had given me straight hair for the first time in my life, had blown up in the damp air. My brown hair was a tangled mess, my makeup was smeared, and my earlier thoughts about being an amphibian were too kind. I looked like something out of a scene from,
Night of the Living Dead
. I belonged exactly where I was—in a psychic parlor trying to raise the dead. God help me. Call a preacher. Or maybe just call Frankenstein. I could be his bride.

“Maybe Mo and me
can lend a hand,” Natalie suggested as I walked away from Karma, who was now having a meltdown in Vee’s arms.

I wanted to tell her my hair and outfit were beyond redemption, but knew she was talking about the celeb and her FFF
. My British friend wore a jade-colored linen blouse with a matching blazer. Natalie, with her gorgeous face, perfect figure, and long legs, looked beautiful. I’m not the jealous type, but my friend could make a person turn green…damn, that color again.

Natalie went on, “H
ad me a few go arounds with prissy missies like Karma. Give me a few and I’ll have Madonna serving tea and crumpets to the Sherlocks and humpty-dumpty purring like a kitty cat.”

“Yeah,” Mo added. The one-time prostitute and pimp—yes pimp—was in
her take-charge mode. “Karma just needs to mourn—talk through her feelings with her FFF. If that doesn’t work, I’ll put them both in a headlock.”

After warning them that a wrestling move was not an option
I walked away, letting the Snoop Sisters babysit.

I saw my partner Charlie Winkler
and Pearl Kramer coming through the door. Winkler was nearing retirement, an overweight cardiac case who should have carried an extra holster—for a sandwich. Kramer was a retired black detective who the department had recently brought back to work RHD part-time. The silver-haired, former chief of detectives, was smart and professional, someone you could always depend on, unlike most of the department personnel.

“Fair warning,” Charlie said, popping something that looked like a Hershey’s chocolate kiss into his mouth, “the press is marshaling down the street and Skully just pulled up.
”

M
y blood pressure spiked. Before the night was over, I decided, there could be a murder-suicide. Okay, maybe I didn’t really think about killing myself—until Skully came through the door.

Captain Elmer Skully, yes Elmer, was my new boss, assigned to temporarily supervise the unit until a lieutenant could be transferred or promoted. Skully was something of a throwback, as in, if you caught him, like a fish in a stream you’d throw him back. No, come to think of it, I would gut, filet him, and throw him on a fire.

I was convinced that, after forty-two years on the force, Skully’s major accomplishment had been his hatred of women. Okay, maybe hatred is too strong of a word. Let’s just say that he’s a misogynistic monster.

“Run it down,” Skully said, patting a hand over his shiny, hairless head. His gray, lifeless eyes darted around the room, not lookin
g at me. When I started to answer, he turned to Winkler and Kramer. “I want more units, barricades, tape, crowd control, the whole neighborhood cordoned off. Looks like a god-damned cirque de soufflé out there.”

“Cirque du Soleil,” I said.

“What?”

I love irritating assholes. “This is my mother’s place. She was doing a psychic reading for the celebrity, Karma. The bullet came through the window, killing her agent. I did a quick search of the neighborhood, almost got run down. Didn’t get a plate but found this in the street.” I showed him the tarot card in a plastic evidence envelope.

He glanced at the envelope, didn’t touch it. “Psychic what?”

I explained about my mother’s reading, Karma’s concerns about Love Dawg, her FFF, even why we were all wearing green.

Skully just stood there, his mouth gaped open. I wondered, okay maybe I prayed, that he had a stroke. Please God, make his parting a quick one. I even composed a brief but moving eulogy. “Ding-dong, the jerk is gone.”

My prayers weren’t answered.

“Why is it that shit always seems to find you, Detective?”

“Maybe because I work with assholes.” Okay, I just thought it, didn’t say it.

“Thirty days,” he continued. “Thirty f-ing days assigned to RHD and you can’t wait for a murder to find you. You go out, find one, and drag it into your mother’s living room. Psychic readings. Love dogs. Green celebrities.” He turned to Winkler and Kramer. “Wait ‘til the press gets hold of this.”

“It’s Dawg,” I said.

“What?”

“Love Dawg.” I spelled it out for him, said Dawg again, dragging out the syllable, and gave him a brief lecture on the rapper’s m
ost famous song, “Life Sucks. It’s a sexual reference, in case you were wondering.”

Skully just stood there again, his face frozen. I’d seen the same image on one of Bernie’s turds lying in the snow when we were in Canada last year.

Skully’s face thawed, he found his voice. “Would somebody get me a f-ing interpreter?”

I did my best to ignore the chuckles from somewhere behind me. “I think the
shooter meant to kill Karma.” The captain’s face flushed. Maybe his blood pressure was going through the roof and a stroke was still a possibility. Hope springs eternal. “Her agent, Harriett Nordquist, was leaning over in her direction when the shot was fired. I think she was about to say something to Karma when she was hit.”

“You think…you think…” Skully took a step closer to me, until I could see the silver fillings in his yellow teeth and something else that looked like salad. At least he’d come to the party wearing some green.

I thought about suggesting a tooth whitening gel as the captain went on, “You don’t think, Detective. That’s an order. You don’t walk, crawl, talk, fart, or think unless and until someone says it’s okay. Do I make myself clear?”

“
I think we should send a car.”

“What did I just say?”

“To Love Dawg’s house.”

“I don’t
believe this.”

“Karma thinks he’s been cheating. That’s the reason for the psychic reading. Maybe it’s some kind of love triangle.”

“Or, Bermuda Triangle,” Skully fumed.

“Or, a stalker angle
. Karma’s fiancé might know if someone’s a danger to her. At the very least, we need to verify his whereabouts, get his statement.”

“Pearl and I can send a car,” Charlie suggested from somewhere behind me, trying to deflect the confrontation. My partner thinks he’s my daddy, tries to protect his little girl. It irritates the hell out of me.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Pearl added. “We can also try to locate the agent’s next of kin, see if there’s anyone who might’ve wanted to harm her.”

Skully waved a hand, probably in deference to Pearl who had thirty-plus year
s with the department before retiring. “Do it.”

The police captain turned back to me, his eyes narrowing.
With his bald head and tapered face he looked like an alien searching for his mother ship. Maybe Area 51 was missing its captain.

Skully went on, “Listen to me very carefully, Detective Sexton. The celeb’s agent was the victim here. Until and unless we know otherwise, we treat her as such. That means we interview witnesses and look for a motive, something you probably missed in the academy because you were busy painting your nails and powdering your…your face.”

Wow, Skully almost stepped in it big time on that one. I wished I had a powder puff in my purse. I would have pulled it out and discussed feminine grooming tips with him.

The captain paused, maybe try
ing to regain some self-control. He seemed unable to breathe for a moment, while I again silently prayed for a coronary.

Finally, he sucked in a breath and said, “I
’m going to assign this case to you and Winkler. Do not, I repeat, do not talk to the press. Do not talk to anyone—a witness, a person of interest, your mother, your priest, a celebrity, a dog, or for that matter God himself unless you check with me first. You screw this case up and I don’t care what the chief of police, the Dali Lama, or the President of the United States says. You and your god-damned dog will be issuing parking tickets in Compton. Is that understood?”

I nodded, resisting the urge to make a zipping motion over my lips and then salute him with the middle finger of my right hand. I tried to be quiet. I really did
. But the mention of my dog made me anxious. I hadn’t yet been told if Bernie could remain as my partner while I worked homicide. “Bernie, do we have any word…”

Skully held up a finger. “Silence.” He turned to
my hairy partner who was lapping up some water after our jaunt through the neighborhood. “For now, the mutt stays. Just be sure he doesn’t piss on the vic.”

I spent the next hour, with Skully’s permission, interviewing Karma and Vee separately, while another officer took statements from my mother, Natalie, and Mo.

Karma, a beautiful young woman with, of course, green eyes said that Harriett Nordquist was a caring, gentle person without an enemy in the world who practically raised her after her mother died in childbirth.

Despite Skully telling me to focus on Harriet, I asked Karma about anyone who might want to harm her. The celeb said that she had no particular enemies, other than a list of stalkers who wanted to chain her to the bedposts in their basements. She had a restraining order against a couple of these men. I took down the information, even though neither of them had caused a problem recently.

As the interview progressed, we discussed her fiancé. Karma said she’d tried calling and texting LD, as she affectionately referred to Love Dawg, but he wasn’t answering. She professed her love for the rapper, even though she admitted she was concerned about rumors that he’d been cheating. I pressed her on the jealousy angle, but Karma denied knowing anyone in particular that her fiancé might be seeing.

The FFF wasn’t much help either, other than
telling me that she’d met Karma when they were both in high school. She and the singer had been together through both the good and bad times, including Karma’s much publicized stint in rehab.

Vee promised to get
me a list of Karma’s employees. I told her I’d stop by the celebrity’s house for the information tomorrow. After our initial confrontation, the FFF had calmed down and was even cooperative. If she’d lose the dragon paste and find a breath mint, I thought I might be able to tolerate her.

After Mom gave her statement, she retired to her living quarters with a migraine. Natalie and Mo met up with me in the living room as the crime scene unit arrived and set up.

“Karma and Vee want to know if they can leave now,” Natalie said. She smiled in that little girl way she has when she’s bursting with excitement.

I looked from her to Mo and back again. “What’s going on?”