In Cold Blonde (34 page)

I
started running.  If I cut through the alley and caught the light on Santa
Monica Boulevard, I could be at Madison’s in a couple of minutes.  And
while I may not have been the Bionic Woman, Madison and I did take a
self-defense class from Charlie Wang’s Women Empowerment Academy.

I
reviewed Charlie’s Five and Five.  The five target areas:  Eyes,
Nose, Throat, Jaw and Groin.  The five attacks: Palm Strike, Throat
Strike, Head Butt, Elbow Blow, Knee Kick.  Charlie was also a huge
proponent of mace.  We drilled using it when attacked from the front and
attacked from the rear.  On graduation day, we each got a diploma and a
four-ounce can of mace.  I’d never fired it in anger, so to speak, but it
was in my purse and ready to go.

I
looked for help as I bolted out of the alley and raced down Kelton Avenue. 
No cops, anywhere.  No hunky guys standing around who might want to help a
lady in distress, either.  The light blinked from yellow to red as I got
to the intersection.  Screw it, I thought, and I darted into the street. 
Screeching brakes and blaring horns greeted me, but I made it across Santa
Monica unscathed and stopped in front of Madison’s building.  There was an
exterior staircase leading to the second floor landing and Madison’s apartment.

I
pulled out my cell phone, tried 911 one final time and couldn’t get a
signal.  I had a copy of Madison’s key, part of Charlie Wang’s Buddy
System.  I grabbed it and started up the stairs.  When I reached the
apartment, I put my ear to the door, heard nothing.  Tried to look in the
window, but the drapes were drawn.

I
thought about knocking.  But if some evildoer was inside, I was afraid
they would just shoot me through the door.  So I unlocked the door, traded
the key for my can of mace and slowly stepped inside.

The
living room was empty, but a complete mess.  Stuff was tossed
everywhere.  I inched forward, peeked into the kitchen.  Madison was
sprawled on the floor.  I rushed to her, blood dripped from a gash on her
forehead.  She was either dead or unconscious.

“Madison!”
I whispered urgently.  I put two fingers to her carotid artery –- I
played a nurse on an episode of
The Mentalist
and the technical advisor
had taught me how to do it.   The pulse was strong, thank God. 
“Madison,” I whispered again.  I looked for something to staunch the
bleeding.  There was a dishtowel on the counter.  I grabbed it, but when
I pulled it, I realized it was sitting under a nest of copper measuring
cups.  They went flying; with a loud clang, they hit the floor.

There
was a thud from somewhere in the apartment, then the sound of running
footsteps.  Crap! 

I
whirled toward the kitchen door, the mace aimed in front of me.  A man
burst into the kitchen.  Big, mean and ugly.  Not him, the gun in his
hand.  He was short, but all muscle, with a pockmarked face and maniacal
eyes.

As he
raised the gun, I sprayed him full in the face.  He screamed and dropped
to his knees, his hands clawing at his eyes.  I bent over Madison, tried
to get her to her feet, but she was still out and dead weight.  No way I
could pick her up.

Then
the thug, still frantically rubbing his eyes, got to his feet.  He was
recovering fast.  I reached out to spray him again, but he knocked the can
out of my hand.

Shit!

He dove
at me but I darted to my left and he missed.  Then I made a beeline for
the door.

I half
ran, half fell down the stairs.  As I hit the ground, I looked back to see
the thug flying out Madison’s apartment after me.  I hurtled myself into
the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard waving my arms, screaming, “Help! 
Somebody help me!”

WE HOPE
YOU’VE ENJOYED THIS EXCERPT FROM
SEXY BABE.

IT’S
AVAILABLE NOW AT AMAZON.COM

And here’s one more excerpt from another James L. Conway novel: 
Dead and Not So Buried.

Before
you go, thanks to Camel Press, we’ve included an excerpt from another novel by
James L. Conway – a Hollywood thriller full of mystery, murder, mayhem,
and humor
– Dead and Not So Buried :

Lightning
ripped the sky like a knife through flesh.

Okay, that’s a
little much. Fact is, there was no lightning. Hell, there wasn’t a cloud in the
sky. But kidnapping is a heinous crime, heinous enough for a little atmosphere.
So even if there was no lightning, there should have been.

The Kidnapper
broke in through the rear gate. A crowbar snapped the rusted chain. His size
eleven boots left a clear path across the dew-sodden grass, past the flowers,
through the statues, to her chamber.

Having long
since vacated her body, she couldn’t hear the scratching and scraping as he
broke into her sanctuary. Couldn’t see him as he entered her cold, white room. Never
felt him sweep her into his arms.

The Kidnapper
shuddered. She looked terrible, much worse than expected. Her white gown was
streaked with dirt and mildew. That shock of blond hair was reduced to just a
few sparse, wispy patches. And her face was a mess. At least she didn’t smell.

She fit easily
inside the oversized burlap bag. He pulled the cord. Outside once more, he
scanned the grounds with his sharp green eyes. Nothing. He cocked an ear. Just
a solitary siren destroying someone’s peace a few miles away.

He placed the
ransom note in the doorway then tossed the bag over his shoulder and retraced
his steps toward the rear gate. Except for stealing Marvel comic books from
Harmon’s Drug Store when he was a kid and doing a little coke when he first got
to Hollywood, this was the first time he’d ever broken the law. He’d expected
the anxiety buzz, but the hard-on was a complete surprise.

His car was
parked a block away. The top was down on his black SL 550. He placed her
carefully on the back seat. He didn’t bother buckling her in, though; after
all, his victim had been dead for almost forty years.

He slipped
behind the wheel of the convertible. Once he got the ransom he’d pay off the
leasing company. He was getting sick of their repo threats. Everybody’s repo
threats.

The car purred
to life. The kidnapper smiled as he put the car into gear and drove away from
the cemetery. Unbelievable. He’d actually pulled it off. He’d kidnapped one of
Hollywood’s greatest icons.

And now
everyone would have to pay.

I was in my
office when the call came. Sitting at my desk admiring the front cover of a
paperback novel. My paperback novel.
Rear Entry
, by Gideon Kincaid.
That’s me. Ex L.A. cop turned private detective turned novelist. The Joe
Wambaugh of the PI set.

I should be so
lucky. The book had only been out for two weeks. Too soon to tell if anyone
would buy it. Dreams of fancy cars and private planes were on hold as I
continued to earn a living poking through other peoples’ lives.

Hillary came in
from the outer office. “I’m sorry, Gideon,” she said, her features twisted in
compassion.

My own features
were twisted in confusion. “Sorry about what?”

“I understand
if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Hillary’s my
secretary, a smart twenty-five-year-old with all the good stuff—blond
hair, blue eyes, great body. But there’s a sweetness to Hillary, an endearing
naivety that makes me look upon her as a little sister. All my thoughts about
Hillary are pure. Well, almost all of them.

“I’ll be happy
to talk about it,” I said. “If I had any idea what we were talking about.”

“Death.”

“If you’re
asking me to take a stand, I’m definitely against it.”

I’ve known
Hillary since she was ten years old. Her father, Jerry, was my partner for a
couple of years when I was driving a black and white out of the West Valley
Division. A couple of years ago she showed up looking for a job. I’d just lost
my secretary, and Hillary needed the job, so I said sure. She didn’t just want
to be a secretary, she told me, she wanted to be a PI like me. I told her I’d
show her the ropes but never really got around to it. Truth is, she’s so good
in the office I’d hate to lose her.

“Okay,” she
said. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it. But it won’t do you any good
to, like, keep all that grief inside. It’ll fester and feed on itself. Eat away
at your insides until your soul dies and you become one of the walking dead. A
spiritless zombie going through life like a blind man in a garden.” She did
that from time to time—rattled on in New Age nonsense. Something to do
with her being a native Californian. “Anyway,” she said. “Alex Snyder’s on line
two.”

“Alex Snyder?”

“From the
mortuary ...” She said it like only an idiot wouldn’t know what she was
talking about.

“Of course, the
mortuary ...” I said, as if I knew what the hell she was talking about. It’s
never a good idea to let your secretary think you’re an idiot. I picked up the
phone. “Gideon Kincaid.”

“This is Alex
Snyder, from Westside Cemetery. I wonder if we could meet.”

“Look, if this
is some kind of sales call, I—”

“No, Mr.
Kincaid. This is business. Important business. Please, I need to see you right
away.”

Somebody
must’ve stolen a headstone, I thought. Or maybe his teenage daughter had run
away. It didn’t really matter. He needed help, and that’s what I did for a
living. “All right, Mr. Snyder. I’m on my way.”

My office is in
Sherman Oaks, in a strip mall on Ventura Boulevard. Above a pet store called
The Bunny Hop. My romantic soul felt I should have an office in one of the
funky old buildings on Hollywood Boulevard—much more Chandleresque. But I
get the creeps in Hollywood. Frankly it scares the shit out of me. Not the
weirdos, the gangs, or the homeless. But the decay. If society can let the
Boulevard of Dreams turn into an urban nightmare, what chance does the rest of
the city have?

Westside
Cemetery is in Brentwood, about twenty minutes from Sherman Oaks, so I used the
time in my car to catch up on my literary career.

“Bad news.”

“Sales are
slow?”

“Slow would be
good. They’re nonexistent. The publisher’s decided the title’s the problem.
Rear
Entry
sounds like a sex manual for gay men.”

I was talking
to my agent, Elliot. He’s got a boutique agency for writers on their way up. Or
down. I wasn’t sure which category I belonged in. “Elliot, the title was their
idea.”

“Everybody
makes mistakes.”

“Let them make
mistakes with Grisham’s next book.”

“Almost nobody
writes a bestseller their first time up. Not even Grisham.”

“It took me
three years to write
Rear Entry,
and now you’re saying I have to write
another book?”

“You told me
you wrote for the pure joy of it.”

“I was lying.”

“I warned you
writing was a tough way to get rich.”

“I thought
you
were lying.”

“Never fear,
Bubele. It’s not over until the buyer for Barnes and Noble sings. If they give
us a doorway display, hell, who knows ...”

“Anything I can
do to help? Interviews? Book signings?”

“Reality check,
Gidman. You’re nobody. James Patterson does interviews because he’s famous.
People will watch a show to see him. Ratings go up, he sells more books. It’s a
help you/help me kind of simpatico. Stephen King does a book signing because
he’s famous. People come to a bookstore just to see him. More people in the
store mean sales go up. We’ve got that help you/help me thing going again.”

“But they got
famous writing books.”

“Correctamundo,
but they wrote bestsellers. Writing bestsellers made them famous. And fame is
the ultimate passkey. Before you can hit the interview/book signing trail,
Rear
Entry
needs to become a bestseller.”

“But how will
it become a bestseller if I can’t do any interviews or book signings?”

“Welcome to
Catch 22 Land—chicken and the egg and all that.”

“So that’s it?
There’s nothing I can do?”

“You could get
famous first. Break a big murder case. Solve a million dollar diamond heist.
Marry Lindsey Lohan. You need something to single you out, something to make
people sit up and take notice.”

Yeah, right
,
I thought.
Who’s going to notice a two bit PI?
“All right, Elliot,” I
said. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Wait, I’ve got
one more piece of bread to throw upon the waters.”

“What?”

“Don’t give up
your day job.”

There’s
something very soothing about cemeteries—all that grass, the flowers, the
fountains, the birds. It’s a shame they’re wasted on the dead.

The Westside
Cemetery is in the heart of Brentwood. It’s small—only about two
acres—but some of Hollywood’s biggest stars are buried there.

I was shown
into Alex Snyder’s office by his secretary—a middle-aged woman who oozed
warmth and compassion. Alex Snyder also oozed warmth and compassion. He was the
kindly grandfather type—late sixties, thick gray hair, natty moustache,
reassuringly plump. He smiled as I entered, shook my hand. “Mr. Kincaid, a
pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, call
me Gideon.”

“Gideon,” he
said, smiling.

“Will there be
anything else?” the secretary asked.

“No, Bernice,
thank you.”

She closed the
door. Snyder pulled a .45 Smith and Wesson out of his desk and shoved it in my
face. “Where is she?”