by M. Z. Kelly
“I hope he’s the one,” I said after he’d told me that Adam worked for one of the Hollywood studios.
“We’ll see.” I watched as he trimmed several inches off my hair. I was about to warn him to go slow when he asked, “How are things with Noah?”
“Really good. We’re getting together again over the weekend.”
“It sounds serious.”
“I think he’s the gift that my love-dad was talking about.”
Several months back, I’d had a conversation with my love-dad, after my former partner Ted Grady had committed suicide. Since my dad was dead, I’d been convinced that meeting was the result of a complete mental breakdown I’d suffered after Ted’s death. Now I wasn’t so sure. In addition to filling in some of gaps about his relationship with both my adoptive and biological mothers, he’d given me insight into the nature of loss. He’d said that when we suffer a loss, there’s also a gift that’s left behind. I had come to believe that Noah was the gift that he’d been talking about.
My thoughts surfaced as Robin asked, “Anything new with the search for your bio-dad?”
I took a few minutes, filling him in on the letters my mother had written to me, my meeting with Collin Russell, and what he’d said about Kellen Malone. “According to Russell, his son is involved in the Revelation. The group supposedly communicates by putting messages in the movies they back. It’s all very clandestine and a bit weird.”
Robin didn’t respond to what I’d said. I started to ask him why he was so quiet, when I noticed my hair. “Enough,” I said. “I’m going to look like a boy if it’s any shorter.”
He stopped working for a moment and said, “Okay, let me just even out the ends.”
He continued working on my hair, but didn’t comment on what I’d said earlier. I finally asked, “Have you ever heard of the Revelation?”
He looked at me in the mirror. “This is strange.”
When he didn’t go on I asked, “What’s strange?”
“Adam, the guy I’ve been seeing. He mentioned something the other day.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that he’s been working on a script—I think it’s for some kind of crime show—and said somebody with the studio wanted him to insert a couple of lines of dialog. He said he agreed to do it because the changes were minor and he didn’t really have any other choice, but he thought it was kind of strange.”
“Did he say what the lines were about?”
Robin went back to my hair. “He said they were references to locations and dates. He thought it might be some kind of message about an upcoming meeting. The whole thing left him feeling a little confused.”
“Who at the studio was behind the changes to the script?”
He shook his head. “I’m not really sure. I could arrange for you to talk to him, if you’d like.”
I met his eyes in the mirror, nodding. “Let me see about my schedule. I’ll let you know.”
My attention went back to my hair as he took out his blow-dryer. Ten minutes later, I had a sassy, short hairdo that fell just below my ears. It seemed to frame my face much better.
“Well?” Robin said, turning off the hairdryer.
“It’s going to take some getting used to, but I think I like it.”
He put his hands on his hips. “That doesn’t exactly sound like a ringing endorsement.”
I stood up and hugged him. “I love it. Did anybody ever tell you that you’re the best?”
“Just a sister of mine who’s also the best.”
I paid him and was on my way out when I thought about his new boyfriend. “I’ll let you know about getting together with Adam. I’ll see if Noah is free. Maybe the four of us can go out for drinks.”
***
Bernie and I got home just after seven. I was unlocking my apartment when Natalie came over and reminded me about their get-together with the celebrity chef. “Marlon the Magnificent should be here ’bout eight. Why not stop by for a Dirty Harriett and some nosh, then...” Her eyes fixed on my new do. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
“Do you like it?”
Natalie brushed a hand through her own gorgeous blonde hair. “It’s…well, it’s kinda different.”
My shoulders slumped. “You hate it.”
She punched my shoulder. “I’m just takin’ the Mickey with ya. I love it. It makes you look—I think it gives you some attitude.”
“Attitude. That’s something that’s never been in short supply with me.” I tugged on my dog’s leash. “Let me feed Bernie and I’ll stop by in a few.”
A half hour later, I cringed as I opened the door to Natalie and Mo’s apartment and heard Nana’s voice. I went into the living room where I saw the elderly multi-millionaire was on the sofa with a couple of young men.
Before I could say hello, Natalie shoved a drink in my hand and whispered, “You’re gonna need a Harriett, just to deal with her.”
“What the hell happened to your hair?” Nana asked before I could acknowledge her and her youthful companions.
Mo, who had on a short red wig, dipped her head toward Nana and her two friends. “Nana brought part of her posse.” Her gaze came back over and fixed on my hair. “I like the new do.”
“I don’t,” Nana said. “You look like a lesbian. Did you switch sides?” Her entourage laughed.
I exhaled and tried to keep my voice even. “Robin worked his magic.” I decided that if there was anything that merited a Dirty Harriett, it was being around Nana. I took a sip of the drink. It was frothy, cold and delicious.
“Robin’s no Izzy,” Nana said, referencing Natalie’s magician boyfriend. “Your hair will look good in about six months, when it grows out.”
I ignored her as Mo rubbed her forehead and said, “Nana was in the neighborhood and dropped by with a couple of guys who are gonna be on her show, Bedtime Stories.”
“This is Tugboat and Fly,” Nana said by way of introduction.
I thought about asking about their names, but Nana continued, “The boys are gonna give up the goods about their lifestyle.”
I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but it had already opened long enough for me to take another gulp of my Harriett, so I asked, “What kind of lifestyle is that?”
“We’re gigolos,” Tugboat answered. He was a big guy who alternately flexed his biceps, making it look like he was suffering from some kind of strange muscular affliction.
“Tugboat’s renowned in certain circles, if you know what I mean,” Nana said. She looked at her other companion. “Fly, on the other hand, makes you want to swat him.”
“I’m what you would call persistent,” Fly said. He was smaller than his gigolo companion, with bulging eyes that maybe contributed to his nickname.
I took another sip of my Harriett, trying to suppress images of Tugboat and Fly in their chosen profession.
There was a knock at the door. Natalie answered it and in a moment introduced us to the celebrity chef, Marlon the Magnificent. She told us, “Marlon’s gonna make us one of his delicacies—a cream pie.”
Nana opened her mouth wide enough to pop her oversized dentures out of her mouth and belly laughed. “A cream pie, really?”
That was enough to set Mo into motion. Before Nana could say something inappropriate, she stood up and said, “You and the boys are gonna have to run along. This place ain’t big enough for all of us.”
Their apartment was tiny, but I knew what she’d said was just an excuse to get rid of Nana and her posse.
“We can take a hint,” Nana said, standing up. She smiled at the boat and the fly. “We’ve got other duties to take care of, anyway.”
Nana’s companions had a queasy expression as they followed her to the door, maybe anticipating a long night. When they were gone, Natalie served up another round of Dirty Harrietts. I knew better, but accepted a second drink.
“I got me a feeling we’re all gonna need a bunch of these to purge our minds of Nana and her p
osse,” Mo said.
“I personally consider it a case of child abuse,” Natalie said.
The celebrity chef went over to their kitchen where he brought out an assortment of pots and pans. Marlon was about sixty, bald, and looked like he was pushing three hundred pounds, maybe a testament to his culinary skills.
Marlon worked on his cream pie while I chatted with my friends. After a few minutes, we all joined him in the kitchen where he told us about his background. “I started out working for the studios as a kid. A few years later, I got a job helping out with the catering. In time, I began bringing my own recipes to the sets.” He used a whipped cream topping off his creation and added, “Voila! The rest, as they say is history.”
After garnishing his dessert, Marlon served up the delicacy. Mo took a bite of the pie and said, “I always say, there’s nothing like a good cream pie.”
“This is definitely the money shot,” Natalie added.
Marlon’s forehead became pinched and he looked at me, apparently unaware of the double entendre.
I changed the subject. “You must have known a lot of stars over the years, Marlon.”
He savored a spoonful of pie. “I’ve known my share, even some of the big ones.”
What he’d said struck a chord with me. I decided I had nothing to lose by asking, “Did you ever know a producer who worked at Wallace Studios about thirty years ago? His name was Donald Regis.”
“Donald. Of course, he was one of those larger-than-life executives. He had a lot of power.”
“It’s a shame about what happened to him recently.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “I mean, about him committing suicide.”
Marlon nodded slowly, but didn’t look at me. “If you say so.”
My forehead tightened. “What are you trying to say?”
“I heard…” He took a moment, savoring another bite of his dessert. “I just heard things may not have been as they appeared.”
I held on his eyes. “You mean, that it wasn’t a suicide?”
He nodded but otherwise didn’t respond.
I glanced at Natalie and Mo and looked back at him. I decided to ask him about the subject that was really on my mind. “What about Kellen Malone?”
Marlon’s expression was solemn. He said, “You know, don’t you?”
I nodded, playing along, but had no idea what he meant. “Tell me about what you heard.”
Marlon Pavarotti lowered his voice and his eyes swept over the room before he answered. “Just that somebody close to Malone made good on a long-standing promise.”
I looked at my friends, back at him. “What kind of promise?”
“To kill Regis.”
FOURTEEN
Dirty Harriett stood over me holding a drink. The woman, who looked remarkably like Clint Eastwood in a long brown wig, bent down to me and said, “You need to ask yourself one question, punk. Does it hurt? Does it hurt real bad?”
“Yessss,” I moaned and sat up on my bed. “It hurts like hell.”
I didn’t know how many Harrietts I had last night, but it was enough to leave me feeling like the most powerful handgun in the world had gone off in my head. I took a long, hot shower, and slogged off to work with Bernie.
As I drove, what Marlon the Magnificent had said about someone close to Kellen Malone making good on a promise to kill Donald Regis came to mind. Upon further questioning, Marlon had said he was speculating, based on rumors he’d heard about the group. He’d clammed up when I asked about Malone being involved in the Revelation, saying that he didn’t know if he had any association with them. I got the impression that the celebrity chef, like so many others, was terrified of the group and had no interest in talking about it.
After stopping for coffee, the pounding in my head lessened, until I pulled into the station parking lot and saw the camera crew unloading their equipment. I saw Shelia Woods waving to me from the sidewalk and my headache blossomed in all its former glory.
I glanced at Bernie in the rearview mirror as I pulled into a parking space and said, “Do you think it’s too late to call in sick, tell Oz that I was held hostage by Dirty Harriett last night?”
Bernie just licked the air, which I decided was his way of telling me, “Sorry, Kate. You play, you pay.”
I exchanged greetings with the reporter when we got to the building. As usual, Woods was wearing a designer outfit and looked like she’d just walked off the cover of Vogue. The star of Hollywood Detective was around thirty, with shoulder length blonde hair and perfect features. Her skin and makeup were flawless. The whole package made me feel like the ugly stepsister in need of a fairy godmother. Instead, I had Harriett pistol-whipping my brain.
“I see you’ve changed your hair,” Woods said, her blue eyes taking in my new do.
“Yes. I wanted something that was a little more manageable.”
“Interesting.” She turned and called over to the camera crew, telling them that I was one of the detectives on their show.
Interesting? What the hell does that mean? I smiled when she looked back at me and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make sure my dressing room has my name and a star on the door. See you in a few.”
I found Leo was already at his desk. He glanced up at me, probably realizing I’d encountered the reporter. “I guess you’ve seen the army setting up in the parking lot.” He took in my new hairdo. “I like the new look.”
“Thanks. And, yes, I just ran into General Woods in the parking lot. She was setting up the heavy artillery.”
Leo smiled and changed the subject. “I got ahold of Vince Marsh a little while ago. He was less than thrilled about it, but agreed to meet with us this afternoon.”
“Any word from his father-in-law or on the phone tap?”
Leo shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe we’ve got this kidnapping angle all wrong.”
“Or maybe there’s something else going on that we’re not aware of.”
“As in?”
“Not sure, but I was thinking on the way into work that we should talk to Oz, maybe have Henry Montreal followed like we thought about before. He could put Darby and Mel on it.”
“Let’s stop by and see what he says on the way to the set.”
I smiled. “I can tell by your terminology that show business has already gone to your head.”
The lieutenant was headed downtown to meet with Captain Dembowski, but he agreed to our proposal, telling us that he’d make the arrangements for Darby and Mel to tail Montreal. Leo and I then took seats in his extended office with Selfie and Molly, who had already introduced themselves to Woods. Even though the bat cave was large, with Shelia Woods, the camera crew, their equipment, and Bernie, it felt cluttered and hot.
As the camera crew took their places, I made a suggestion as to how we could proceed. “Our crime analyst and secretary can go over the general facts of the case, if you agree. It will give your viewers a chance to see some of the Section One equipment and get some background on the investigation. We can then talk about specifics of working the case.”
“That’s fine, once the preliminaries are out of the way, I want to dig into the heart of things.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Leo and I agreed to her proposal.
Selfie began with the summary, using the overhead monitors to show pictures of the crime scene. Several of the shots were graphic, but Woods assured us they would be blurred out during the editing process.
“The victims were Walter and Maggie Potter,” Selfie said. Our crime analyst had worn a blue dress for the TV shoot and had removed her piercings. It was the first time I’d ever seen her in a dress and without the metal. “Walter was self-employed as an independent insurance broker in Hollywood. His wife helped out with the business. The coroner placed their time of death as sometime between eleven and four in the morning on the night of January 19th. The intruder entered the home by prying open the rear French doors to the residence. The victims’ ankles and hands were bound with
a drapery cord, using what’s known as a diamond knot. They were subsequently beaten to death with a fireplace poker that was taken from the downstairs living room.”
“The knot used to tie them,” Woods said, “has that kind of knot been used in any similar crimes over the past several years?”
Molly, who was wearing a dark pantsuit, answered, “The knot’s more commonly known as a sailor’s knot. We’ve cross-referenced it with several databases, including NCIC, the National Crime Information Center compiled by the FBI. There’s nothing similar in the system.”
Woods looked at me. “Is this kind of knot used in the navy or maybe by fishermen?”
Luckily, I’d done my homework. “The knot’s origins go back hundreds of years. It was a common method a sailor would use to secure a knife around his neck for handy use. The tie is made by two cords entering from the top and two leaving from the bottom. It’s also known as a knife lanyard knot, so it’s possible that our suspect was in the navy or merchant marines.”
Selfie brought up a close-up of the knot on the monitor as Leo added, “The original detectives that worked the case looked at subjects who were in the navy on shore leave, or who had been recently discharged and might have lived nearby. They came up empty.”
Woods nodded at Selfie. “Go on.”
“As I mentioned, the Potters were beaten to death with a fireplace poker taken from the living room.” She used a remote and several graphic photographs of the victims’ bodies were displayed. If Woods was impacted by the images, she gave nothing up. “According to the coroner they would have quickly lost consciousness and succumbed to their injuries. There were no fingerprints, DNA, or other trace evidence left at the scene.”
“And the child…” Woods checked her notes. “Samantha. She didn’t hear anything?”
Molly shook her head and answered. “The home was a split wing. The girl’s bedroom was on the opposite side of the residence. According to the reports of the responding officers, she woke up just after seven to get ready for school. When her parents weren’t up, she checked the bedroom and found their bodies.”
