Hollywood Kids

by Jackie Collins

  He tasted the cake. It was sticky and sweet.

  He imagined Shelley without her clothes. Soft skin... Sweet skin... Sticky skin...

  He knew he had to leave immediately, it wouldn't do to get aroused in front of her.

  He took another bite of cake and walked to the door.

  'Are you going?' she asked, sounding disappointed.

  'I have to.'

  'Don't forget,' she said hopefully. 'Drop by any time.'

  'I won't forget.'

  He returned to his room, closed and locked the door, stripped off his clothes and resumed his pose in front of the mirror.

  Now he could allow himself to be aroused.

  He stared at himself so long and so hard that his own reflection came back at him, and he felt exactly as if he were staring into the soul of another being. It was an eerie feeling.

  After a while he began stroking and caressing himself until the moment was upon him, and when he climaxed he stifled a cry of pure anger, stuffing his fist against his mouth to stop the sound from escaping.

  Later that night he slipped quietly from his room.

  It was time to deal with victim number four.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The late Gerda Hemskys boyfriend was a big man with rugged features, crew-cut red hair and a worried expression. He was the manager of a sporting goods store. Kennedy arrived to see him at his place of work. He wasn't happy when she introduced herself and told him she was writing a story.

  'I'm trying to put this behind me,' he said, agitatedly glancing around. 'Gerda was a fine woman. We lived together a year and then... this. Now everything's gone crazy. I had to move out of our apartment yesterday. I can't stay there without her.'

  Kennedy made an instant evaluation and crossed him off as a suspect. She always trusted her immediate reaction when it came to people, and she sensed this was an ordinary guy caught up in a bad situation. 'Have the police questioned you?' she asked.

  'Yes,' he said grimly. 'As if they had a right to. It isn't enough my girlfriend gets murdered, now I become a suspect.' He paused for a moment. 'You know what's happening in this country, don't you?'

  'What?'

  'It's the criminals that get treated right,' he said heatedly. 'The innocent people are the ones that end up with no justice.'

  She nodded. 'I'm sure you're right.'

  'I know I'm right,' he said forcefully.

  A sales clerk came up with a request for him to sign off on a cheque. He did so.

  Kennedy took out her notebook. 'Can I ask where you and Gerda first met?'

  He frowned. 'Are you questioning me, too? Do you think I'm a suspect?'

  'Of course not,' she said, realizing what a strain he must be under. 'I'm writing about several other women who've been murdered in the same way. Two of the women worked in the movie industry, Gerda in a bank. What did she do before that?'

  'She was a bookkeeper at an accountant's office.'

  'And prior to that?'

  'Her mother knows. She can tell you.'

  'Do you happen to have her number?'

  He wrote the mother's number down on the back of a receipt and handed it to her.

  Thanks,' she said. 'I'll leave you alone for now, I can see you're busy.'

  He nodded abruptly and walked over to the cash register.

  She made her way to the front of the store and stood outside for a moment before crossing the parking lot.

  He ran after her and caught her before she reached her car, startling her. 'Sorry,' he said, out of breath. 'But you must understand - this isn't easy for me.'

  'I do understand,' she said sympathetically.

  'Look,' he hesitated, having trouble talking. 'I'm glad you're trying to do something. You have no idea what it's like when somebody close to you is murdered.' He paused before continuing, choking back his emotions. 'If they ever catch the guy who did it, I'd like to personally hang him up by his balls.'

  Kennedy nodded understandingly. 'If it was up to me I'd make sure you could.'

  She called Gerda's mother from the car. An answering machine picked up, so she left her name and number and requested a return call. Then she set off to meet Rosa for lunch.

  The restaurant was crowded and Rosa was excited, her brown eyes sparkling. 'Listen, Kennedy,' she said, 'I'm about to suggest something, and I insist you say yes because it's a fantastic idea.'

  Oh, God, Rosa never quit. 'If it's a man-' she began.

  'No,' Rosa said, interrupting quickly. 'It is not a man. It's business, pure business - OK?'

  She sighed. 'All right, tell me about it.'

  Tapping her long scarlet fingernails on the table, Rosa said, 'The situation with these murdered women is getting out of control, and since the police are not exactly active, my news station has decided to adopt it as our story. We're all very excited. And I came up with a brilliant idea. You're going to appear on camera and talk about it on the evening news.'

  Kennedy almost laughed aloud, Rosa had really lost it this time. 'Me? On television? You've got to be kidding. I don't even watch it, let alone appear on it!'

  'I am not kidding. You'll do it,' Rosa said, eyes flashing.

  'Why would I?'

  'I'm telling you, there's a serial killer out there. It's time the police formed a task force, and we can make them. The power of TV is awesome. You'll see.'

  'I'm sorry, there's no way I can do it.'

  Rosa wasn't listening. 'Don't worry, you'll be great.'

  'Says you.'

  'My news director's joining us for coffee. If you haven't said yes by then he'll talk you into it. And no, Kennedy, do not get turned on - he is not available.'

  She began to laugh. 'Finally, a man who's not available. And this is the one I'm going to want, right?'

  Rosa laughed too. 'Yeah, right.'

  * * *

  Kennedy was apprehensive, it was all happening so fast. She should have said no and listened to her gut instinct, but Rosa and her news director had been very persuasive.

  She sat down and wrote an editorial, then she went over it with the news director, who was very enthusiastic.

  Rosa advised her how to behave in front of the camera. 'It's easy. Sit still and get a fix straight into the camera. When the monitor rolls, you'll see your words come up on the tele-prompter - all you have to do is read 'em. It'll look exactly like you're talking directly to the viewers.'

  'Are you certain this is going to help?' she asked tentatively, not sure at all.

  'Positive,' Rosa guaranteed.

  'Then why don't you do it?'

  'Because they're used to me. They see me on the news every night. You're a big-time journalist, our viewers will love it.'

  'I am?'

  'Yes, you am. Your Style Wars cover story on Bobby Rush is pretty controversial. USA Today did a piece about it. You're hot right now, and we'll use that factor to boost ratings.'

  'I am not responsible for that story.'

  Think about it this way, you'll be doing some good. If we can get the Chief of Police to put together a task force, then we'll have done our job. Remember the Hillside Strangler a few years back? This is beginning to be just as bad.'

  'OK, OK, I'll do my best.'

  They did a mock run-through. What an ordeal! She stumbled and stuttered her way through it, feeling like a complete fool. Later she went into the make-up room where they proceeded to put too much blusher on her, and a deep green eye-shadow she hated. 'I can't stand all this make-up,' she complained.

  'TV lighting washes people out, especially blondes,' Rosa explained. 'This way your features will come across.'

  Next the hairdresser teased and sprayed her hair. 'Oh, God! I look like a Barbie doll,' she moaned, peering in the mirror.

  'No, you do not. You look magnificent, stop having a fit.'

  By the time she got back in front of the camera she was nervous. Really nervous.

  The news team began taking their positions. Rosa and her co-anchor - a black
man with crinkly hair and a deeply reassuring voice - sat in the middle of a curved desk, while the other regulars gathered around them.

  Kennedy's mouth was so dry she didn't know whether she'd be able to say anything or not. Who needed this kind of stress!

  Finally the cameras started to roll. She watched Rosa slip easily into her anchor role and felt slightly better. If Rosa could do it, so could she.

  By the time the studio manager gave her the signal to start speaking she was like a greyhound at the starting gate - ready to win.

  Taking a long deep breath she began to speak.

  * * *

  'So,' Kennedy said, after the show, feeling quite elated. 'I've done my part, now it's your turn - we're going line dancing.'

  'Are you certain this is a good idea?' Rosa asked unsurely, as they left the studio.

  Kennedy got behind the wheel of her Corvette. 'Whether it is or not, we're doing it.'

  'Maybe we should have brought Ferdy with us.'

  'I have a feeling he'd stand out,' Kennedy said drily. 'Somehow I don't think these Country and Western dives are exactly crawling with six-foot-four black basketball players.'

  Rosa agreed. 'I suppose he isn't exactly unobtrusive.'

  They drove to Boots, a Country and Western club on Pico Boulevard, pulled into the large parking lot, and got out of the car. Rosa immediately began worrying about her appearance. 'Is my ass too big for these jeans?' she said anxiously. 'I'm sure people are going to be pointing at me saying, 'There's that anchorwoman with the big fat ass.'

  'Oh yes, that's what they come here for - just to spot celebrities with big butts.'

  'You'd be surprised. This is Hollywood, babe, celebrity spotting is what it's all about.'

  'You've got it wrong - people come to these places to learn to dance. They're into this whole cowboy thing.'

  'Bullshit,' Rosa replied succinctly. 'They come here to get picked up.'

  'Margarita wasn't the type.'

  'Every woman's the type if she's available.'

  'I don't think so, take me as your prime example.'

  'Oh, you. You're hardly normal.'

  'Thanks a lot.'

  The place was packed. Would-be cowboys abounded, circling the vast round bar that took up the entire centre of the huge space. There were a few booths against the wall, and several standing stations where you could place your drink and survey the action which took place on a large dance floor where groups of people indulged in two-stepping and line dancing. Good old country togetherness.

  'Jeez!' Rosa exclaimed. 'Am I in the wrong place! This is Americana City. I bet I'm the only Hispanic here. I'll probably get beaten up in the parking lot!'

  'Calm down,' Kennedy said. 'We'll have a drink, take a look around, then we're out of here.'

  'I don't believe these guys,' Rosa exclaimed, checking out the passing parade of men. 'Look at 'em. Cowboys by night, accountants by day.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Hey, you think real cowboys would walk around like that with their ten-gallon hats and sassy attitude. Honey, I can assure you, they ain't real cowboys.'

  'So now you're an expert on cowboys. I thought basketball players were your thing.'

  'Do me a favour - buy me a beer and let's make this short.'

  They approached the bar. 'Howdy, little ladies,' greeted the barman, confirming all their worst fears.

  'I suppose a Martini's out of the question?' Rosa said, perching on a bar stool.

  He chortled happily.

  'Two beers,' Kennedy said.

  'This your first time?' the barman asked, with a gap-toothed leer.

  'How did you guess?' Rosa drawled sarcastically.

  'You can have a real blast if you leave your cares on the doorstep.'

  Rosa's eyebrows shot up. 'You got that out of a fortune cookie at Trader Vic's, right?'

  His face was blank. 'Trader who?'

  'Forget it.'

  'I suppose you get a lot of regulars here?' Kennedy asked, leaning her elbows on the bar.

  'S' right,' he replied. 'Regular as clockwork. They come in, dance four or five hours, then go home happy. That's our motto at Boots - put a smile on your face and a spring in your step.'

  'Oh, please,' murmured Rosa.

  Will you shut up,' Kennedy whispered. 'I'm trying to make contact here.'

  'Make contact, my ass,' Rosa said. 'Oooh, there goes a cute one.' Her attention was taken by a blond hunk in a plaid shirt, jeans and a brown Stetson.

  They made eye contact and he swooped. 'Care to take it to the floor, ma'am?' he asked politely.

  'Why not?' she said, winking at Kennedy.

  'Little lady's gonna fit right in,' the barman remarked as Rosa hit the floor with the hunk.

  'My friend, Margarita, used to come here,' Kennedy said, showing him a picture. 'Do you remember her?'

  'I know a lotta people, but names ain't my strong point.' He squinted at the photograph. 'Naw, don't recall her.'

  'You might have read about her,' Kennedy continued. 'She was murdered a couple of months ago.'

  'Was she murdered here?' he asked matter-of-factly.

  'Here?'

  'I'm not supposed to say this.' He leaned across the bar, speaking confidentially. 'We had a coupla rapes in the parking lot.'

  'You did? When?'

  The last one was a few weeks ago. Course, they've beefed up security since then.'

  'Margarita wasn't raped, she was strangled. It's possible she might have been followed home from here.'

  'Really?' he said thoughtfully. 'You a relative?'

  'No, I'm a writer,' she said, handing him her card. 'If you come up with anything, give me a call.'

  He peered at her card. 'Kennedy. That's a funny name for a girl.'

  'What's your name?'

  'Brick.'

  'Oh, that's much more sensible... for a boy.'

  Before he could react she took her bottle of beer, moved away from the bar, and stood at the edge of the dance floor, where she watched Rosa making a complete fool of herself as she tried to two-step with the young stud who had his arms all over her. Trust Rosa to get right into the spirit of things.

  'OK, folks! Time for a little line dancing!' the disc jockey announced through his microphone. 'We'll start you off with the Tumbleweed - follow that with a sexy dose of smooth Black Velvet - an' then we're divin' straight into the Achy Breaky.' A cheer went up.

  Rosa's cowboy for the night escorted her off the floor. 'We're going over there to practise,' Rosa said, her cheeks flushed. 'Billy's teaching me to line dance.'

  'Billy, are you a regular here?' Kennedy asked, stopping him before he whisked Rosa off.

  'Yes, ma'am, come here all the time.'

  She took out her photograph of Margarita. 'Do you know her?'

  Tipping his Stetson back he stared at it for a moment. 'Can't say I do, ma'am.'

  'She used to come here every week.'

  'Reckon she hung out on different nights to me.'

  'Reckon she did,' Kennedy replied.

  'Maybe you should ask one of the bouncers. They know everythin' happens around here.'

  'That's a good idea, thanks.'

  She'd noticed several bouncers roaming around the place dressed in black cowboy hats, black shirts and the de rigmur tight blue jeans. She approached one standing by the door, a shiny silver sheriffs badge gleaming on his shirt.

  'Do you remember this woman?' she asked, showing him the picture of Margarita.

  He glanced at the photo. 'What do I get if I do?'

  'What do you want?' she replied, going along for the ride.

  This one was not shy. 'A date,' he said.

  'I have a feeling my husband wouldn't appreciate it.'

  'Aw, shit! All the best ones are taken.'

  'Do you remember her?'

  'Yeah, good-lookin' lady. She used to come here every Thursday night. Fancy little dancer.'

  'Did she hang out with anybody in particular?'

 
'Nope. Sometimes she'd be with a couple of girlfriends, never saw her leave with a guy.'

  'You've got an excellent memory.'

  'It's a trick of the trade.'

  She was surprised he didn't tag little lady on to the end of the sentence, he seemed to be the type. 'OK, thanks,' she said, brushing back her blonde hair.

  'Too bad you're taken,' he said, winking suggestively.

  It was obvious she was getting nowhere fast. She looked around for Rosa, and found her in the practice area now learning some kind of intricate two-step with the very attentive Billy. Oh, boy, if Ferdy could only see her now!

  'We're going,' she said.

  'We are?'

  'Sorry to drag you away.'

  Rosa waved at her new conquest. 'See ya, cowboy.' He tipped his hat. 'See ya, pretty lady.'

  'Stop baby-snatching,' Kennedy scolded. 'You've got one juvenile at home, isn't that enough?'

  Rosa giggled. 'I may be taken but I'm not dead!'

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mac Brooks couldn't sleep, something was on his mind and there was no way he could shake it. He watched Nightline for a while, until Sharleen complained that the glow from the television was bothering her.

  'I need my sleep, honey,' she murmured, 'I'll have bags under my eyes in the morning if you keep this up.'

  He switched off the television and lay flat on his back in the dark, his mind racing this way and that.

  Something was horribly wrong, his past was coming back to haunt him and it wasn't a good thing.

  When he'd heard about Margarita Lynda's murder he'd thought of it as random violence, one of the many perils of living in L.A. But recently he'd found out about Stephanie Wolffs demise, and he'd known, without a doubt, that their murders had to be linked. Then tonight, on the early news, they'd reported the brutal murder of actress Pamela March.

  He'd gone cold inside. There was no doubt now, he knew who was committing the murders.

  After dinner he'd gone to his study hoping for some peace and quiet so he could think things through and decide what action he might take.