Hollywood Murder

by M. Z. Kelly

  “So much for Woods’ junior detective badge.”

  I nodded. “I guess our shark-baiting plan didn’t yield much.”

  Leo shrugged. “I’ll make sure that word gets around she interfered with our case. She might have the attention of the brass, but I’ll make sure anyone working the streets doesn’t give her the time of day in the future.”

  I told him I appreciated it and mentioned what Selfie and Molly had told us this morning, adding, “The Pressleys appear to have had both marital and financial problems.”

  “Maybe the insurance angle will…”

  Leo was interrupted by a radio call from Agent Dukes that was being broadcast to everyone involved in the operation. “Heads up. We have contact. Bulldog is heading for his car with the football. He’s been ordered to take surface streets before going south on the 101. Let’s stay in formation. We have eyes in the sky.”

  “Here we go,” Leo said, starting the car and looking at the horizon. We couldn’t see the FBI’s helicopter but knew it was part of the team. Fortunately, we didn’t see any press helicopters, maybe because the feds had the good sense to operate on a closed communication channel.

  By the time our very rich Bulldog got his Porsche on the street, and the two other teams of agents had pulled in behind him, Leo and I felt like we were the final float in a parade that had passed us by.

  “I have a feeling this could all come to a head and we won’t be there to see it,” I said.

  Leo sped up. “I don’t care what Dukes said, I’m going to keep our trail car in sight.”

  Even though we’d closed some of the distance, as Dukes updated us, we still felt like we were hearing the play by play at a football game from the cheap seats. “Bulldog is entering the freeway now. Be aware, there’s heavy traffic.”

  As it turned out, Dukes wasn’t kidding about the traffic. Leo and I lost sight of our trail car as we crept up the freeway, going past Universal City, where we’d followed Montreal previously. After a couple of minutes, the traffic slowed even further. We had no choice but to stay the course and hope that somehow we’d eventually close the distance.

  A half hour passed, with Dukes still telling us Bulldog was heading south on the freeway. We were leaving the San Fernando Valley when we finally got word his course had changed. “He’s heading west on Kanan, toward the ocean. Stay in formation.”

  “What formation?” Leo asked.

  It took us another ten minutes to get off the freeway and begin heading west on Kanan Road. The winding highway cut through the hills and ended at Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu.

  Leo passed several cars and finally had our trail car in sight by the time Dukes came back over the radio. “Bulldog is turning south on PCH. Traffic is moderate.”

  “Maybe he’s going back to where he started,” I said, as Leo turned onto the highway behind the other cars. The highway eventually led back into the Los Angeles area, where it connected to several freeways and surface streets.

  “Maybe, or maybe this is just for show. We’ll see.”

  Ten minutes later, we knew it wasn’t for show as Dukes came back on the radio. “Bulldog has been ordered to stop at the Malibu Pier and take the football to the end. Team one will move up and follow on foot. Other teams are to hold their positions at the base of the pier. Be prepared to move out again on my notice.”

  I’d been to the Malibu Pier a couple of times before. It was an in spot for fishermen, and had a small restaurant at the end. The beach surrounding the pier was popular with surfers and was usually crowded. Today was no exception. There were at least a hundred surfers around the pier.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I said, as we slowed down and parked behind our trail car. From where we stopped, we had no visual on Montreal.

  “Our best hope is the bird in the air if something goes down on the pier,” Leo said. “Maybe they’re planning to drop the ransom on a boat.”

  What happened next came to us over our handheld radio as Dukes did play-by-play. “Bulldog is approaching the end of the pier…waiting on further contact…nothing, so far…”

  “Maybe they know we’re watching,” Leo said when we didn’t hear Dukes again.

  A couple of minutes later, the play-by-play resumed. “Bulldog is taking the stairway beneath the pier…there’s a dinghy where he’s been ordered to leave the package…let’s roll…”

  That was our code phrase to move in. Leo and I were on the pier, heading toward the end, when we met up with the other agents. We were nearing the stairway beneath the pier when we heard Dukes say, “The drop has been made. Hostages are in the parking lot.”

  We looked back toward the parking lot, but saw no sign of Allison Marsh or her daughter. A couple of the agents took off on foot to search the lot. A moment later we saw Bulldog huffing his way back up the stairway and rushing over to us.

  “I left the money,” Montreal wheezed. “Where’s my daughter and her kid?”

  “Not sure,” one of the primary agents said.

  “You’re fucking not sure?” Montreal began moving back toward the stairway he’d just left. “I want my goddamn money.”

  We followed behind, scrambling down the stairway behind Montreal. When we got to the lower landing, we saw there was a small docking station beneath the pier with a dinghy tied up, but there was no sign of the Bulldog’s package.

  “Where the fuck did it go?” Montreal fumed. He turned to one of the agents. “You people fucked this up.”

  We scanned the area, seeing no sign of other boats or anyone in the vicinity. The package appeared to have vanished into thin air. The other agents were cussing as Montreal went on meltdown.

  Leo looked at me and said, “We’ve got a snarling Bulldog and it looks like we just fumbled the football.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  “We need to get some fucking divers in the water now,” one of the agents said after we’d given up on finding Henry Montreal’s money, the kidnappers, or the hostages. “Somebody also get the Coast Guard over here.”

  Our best guess was that the kidnappers had been in scuba gear and had been able to get our package from the dinghy, put it in a weighted plastic bag, and were in the process of transporting it beneath the ocean, probably to one of the hundred or so boats that were offshore within sight of the pier.

  While we waited for the operation to gear up, Leo and I searched the parking lot again, but found no sign of Allison or her daughter.

  “No money and no hostages,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair. “This couldn’t have gone any worse.”

  I’d no sooner said the words than a white van pulled into the parking lot. My hopes that it might be our hostages were immediately crushed when I saw that it was one of those press satellite vans. It was being followed by a small parade of other vans and cars. Overhead, I heard the all-too-familiar thump of rotor blades and knew the FBI chopper now had company.

  “How do you suppose word leaked out to the press?” I said to Leo.

  He regarded me with a thin smile, then cut his eyes to Shelia Woods, who had emerged from the press van.

  “Forget I just said that.”

  It took Woods and her camera crew less than five minutes to make their way over to us. “Can you tell us what’s going on here?” she said. “We understand a ransom drop was made on the Marsh case.”

  “You’ll need to talk to the FBI,” Leo said. “They’re in charge.”

  “Surely you can tell us something.” She turned to me, sticking her microphone in my face.

  “I can tell you that you’re the world’s biggest idiot and I wish you’d jump off the end of the pier.” My fantasy life was getting the best of me again. “Sorry,” I said, “we’re not authorized to speak on this matter.”

  Leo and I walked away as Woods said something to her viewers about a lack of cooperation.

  “Maybe she’s right,” I said to my partner, picking up on Woods’ comments. “We’re worthless and of no help to anyone.”
>
  Leo grinned. “You’re not doing anything for my self-esteem.”

  We stopped a few yards away from Woods when we saw Henry Montreal going over to the gaggle of reporters. I couldn’t hear Woods’ question to him, but there was no mistaking the Bulldog’s answer.

  “The FBI and police botched everything,” he fumed. “My money is gone and my family is probably dead, thanks to them. They’re a bunch of incompetent idiots.”

  I sighed, glancing out to the boats that were bobbing peacefully offshore. I wondered if one of those boats had a cargo of ten million dollars and would slip away while we watched helplessly.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The sun was sinking low on the horizon by the time Frank Dyer docked his boat in the Redondo Beach Yacht Harbor. He’d chosen the marina that was a couple of hours south of Malibu because of its secluded location. He knew the authorities would be watching the larger harbors, and the small, private marina was the perfect place to offload his bounty and meet Sasha.

  The time he’d spent scuba diving a few years back had served him well. He’d offloaded the ransom from the dinghy beneath the pier in Malibu, and transported it underwater to the small boat he’d rented and docked offshore. He’d even waved to the idiot cops swarming the pier before leaving, knowing they would think he was just another fisherman

  He saw his beautiful companion waving to him as he carried the bag with his precious cargo up the dock. “I see everything went as you expected,” Sasha said, coming over to him.

  “I told you not to worry. How are the insurance policies?”

  She nodded to the van in the parking lot and laughed. “They’ve been all tied up, waiting patiently for you.”

  He had brought Allison and her daughter along only as leverage. He would have released them in exchange for the money as a final option if things hadn’t gone as planned. While he was pleased that hadn’t been necessary, it now left him with another problem.

  “What happens to them now?” Sasha asked as they walked to the van.

  “We take them back into the mountains, to that place I picked out before.” He regarded her for a moment. Her expression had changed. She was somber. After all her bluster, he decided she probably didn’t have it in her to kill the kid. “I can drop you at the cabin and take care of things myself, if you want.”

  Sasha shook her head, brushed the brown hair off her forehead. “I’m in all the way. We’ll do it together.”

  The drive to Big Bear took them a little over three hours because of heavy traffic. Along the way, they talked about their considerable payday.

  “I want to get one of those expensive ocean front rooms in Santa Barbara and have a massage,” Sasha said. “Then I want to go shopping for a whole new wardrobe.”

  Frank grinned at her. “Don’t forget, you have a promise that you need to take care of tonight.”

  She reached over, cupped a hand around his neck, and kissed him. “I’m going to give you a night you will never forget.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  By the time they reached the mountains, the conversation had drifted away. It gave Frank time to make some decisions. Sasha was a gorgeous woman, but she was also high maintenance. He knew that if he shared the money with her, she would find a way to blow through the fortune in a few years. That would never happen. After their wild weekend in Santa Barbara, he would take Sasha boating. That outing would be a one-way trip. His beautiful companion had served her purpose. It was almost time for her to go away permanently.

  When they finally reached the secluded location a few miles from a mountaintop ski area, Sasha said, “This is the middle of nowhere.”

  Frank glanced at her. “That’s the idea. Allison and her kid will only be a distant memory soon.” He pulled the van off the dirt road, aiming his headlights into the clearing where the two graves had been dug days earlier. “Let’s get them out. You can handle the kid.”

  When the door to the van rumbled open and Frank shone his light on Allison and her daughter, he saw they were terrified. The girl was crying and her mother had managed to work the duct tape covering her face loose.

  “Why are we…stopping here?” Allison said. Her eyes shone like a wounded animal that had been trapped.

  “Potty break.” Frank pulled her out of the van by the ropes around her ankles while Sasha got the crying child on her feet. He pushed Allison toward the gravesites. “Let’s go.”

  They steered the terrified duo into the clearing, the headlights from the van illuminating them as they stumbled deeper into the forest. When they reached their final destination, Frank pulled a gun out of his waistband. Allison saw the earthen pits and began pleading with him as she clutched her sobbing daughter.

  Frank brought his 9mm Glock up, now letting Allison and her daughter see the weapon. “Any last words?”

  He had lost sight of Sasha for a moment and was surprised when he heard her voice behind him. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s hear what you have to say for yourself.”

  Frank felt the icy point of a gun on his neck. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  Sasha came around and faced him, the headlights illuminating her sapphire eyes. “I’m taking out the trash.”

  The bullet that shattered Frank Dyer’s brain echoed through the forest. The blast was so loud that it shocked both Allison and the woman who had called herself Sasha.

  “Thank God,” Allison said to her, releasing a breath. “Now get our ropes untied.”

  Sasha did as she was instructed. When Allison and Jenna had been freed, Sasha said, “We did it. We’re rich.” She came closer and kissed Allison on the lips.

  When they parted, Allison went over and found Frank Dyer’s weapon on the ground. She stood up, barely controlling her anger as she confronted Sasha. “I was afraid everything had gone wrong. Why the fuck did you let the bastard cut off my finger?”

  “He did it before I could stop him.” Sasha’s eyes fell away from her. “I’m sorry.”

  Allison brought the weapon she’d taken from her abductor up and aimed it at Sasha’s head. “I’m afraid that answer just isn’t good enough.” She squeezed off three rounds, obliterating her former captor’s head as she fell into a heap on the ground.

  Allison went over and took her daughter’s hand. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

  As she helped Jenna into the waiting van, Allison thought about friendship. The woman who lay dead on the ground behind her had been her friend. They had spent months planning the kidnapping together. Sasha had used her considerable persuasive skills on Frank Dyer, convincing him they could use Vince in the kidnapping scheme. Her cheating husband, just like Frank, had unwittingly become a pawn in their game. The two men had been willing to sacrifice both her and her children for a very large payday. In the end, they both got what they deserved.

  Allison glanced back at her friend’s body. Sasha. She laughed when she thought about the name they’d chosen. The PI had fallen for the woman he knew as Sasha hook, line, and sinker. In the end, friendship had served Allison well. She was now extremely wealthy and she owed a debt of gratitude to Deidre Cole.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Leo and I got back to the station late in the day. The feds and the Coast Guard had spent the afternoon searching boats in the local harbors in proximity to the Malibu pier. We could only assume that the kidnappers had slipped away with Henry Montreal’s money. The financier was livid and said he was going to sue everyone involved. In the meantime, there had been no word about Allison or her daughter.

  We went directly to Oz’s office, where we filled him in on the events. Selfie and Molly had joined us because they said they had an update on the Potter case.

  After venting our frustration over the day’s events, Leo said, “It doesn’t look good for the hostages.”

  “No money, no leverage,” the lieutenant agreed. “I have a bad feeling we may never see them again.”

  I remembered that Leo and I had previously talked
to Selfie and Molly about wanting to interview Allison’s sister again. I asked them, “Have you had any luck locating Karen Dodd?”

  I got head shakes. “We left a couple of messages on her cell phone, but she hasn’t called back.”

  I looked back at the lieutenant. “Where do we go from here?”

  Oz tossed Bernie a treat. “The case is still with the feds. They’ll do cleanup and try to deal with the fall out with the press. Our roles will likely be diminished.”

  I glanced back at Selfie and Molly. “I guess that’s your cue. What’s the latest?”

  “How does the saying go?” Molly said. “You can never be too rich or have too much insurance.” She looked at Selfie.

  Our crime analyst, who looked like she’d dipped her head in red paint this morning, said, “And some people try to buy their way into Heaven.” She and her counterpart exchanged cryptic smiles.

  “Would you care to explain?” Oz asked them.

  Molly shuffled a stack of papers in front of her. “As we all know, the Pressleys are heavily in debt because of the construction of their Stairway to Heaven project. There’s a mortgage for just under two million dollars on the property, as well as several construction liens.

  “When the mortgage was issued, the bank insisted that the Pressleys take out life insurance policies as a condition of insuring the debt. The Reverend Stan and his wife each have a five million dollar policy that was underwritten by Waverly Insurance, Walter Potter’s company. In the event either party died, the policy was written so that any debts owed on their future church would be paid off first. Any remaining funds would go to the survivor.”

  “It’s interesting that Potter’s company issued the policies,” I said, looking at Leo. “And I’m betting there’s more to this story.”

  Molly took over. “This is where things get interesting. Walter and Maggie Potter also had life insurance policies. We didn’t find out about them until recently because they were taken out years ago with another insurance carrier before Walter opened his own company. Their daughter Samantha was named the beneficiary in the event of either party’s death. Those polices were each worth one million dollars.”