Hollywood Assassin: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “Peter Swanson was a well-known philanthropist—entertained many of the old stars of Hollywood at the estate. I helped out on the case. Mrs. Swanson was kind enough to allow me to live here when I retired. I do a little caretaking and security work. The years have taken their toll on her.”

  Kramer poured us some iced tea, and set a bowl of water out for Bernie. After taking a seat in one of the wicker chairs, I motioned to the canvas and oil paints set up at the corner of the patio. The faint outline of something had been sketched.

  “I see you’re an artist,” I said.

  “More of a finder,” Kramer said, settling into a chair across from us. “I wait until an image finds me. Then I try to be true to it. It’s not unlike being a cop in some ways. You wait for a crime to find you and try to be true to the people involved.” Kramer looked across the rolling grounds, maybe reflecting on something.

  “As I mentioned when I called,” I said after a beat, “Charlie Winkler thought you might remember something about the disappearance of a man named John Carmichael back in the 1980s.”

  Kramer sipped his tea. “Tell me, how is Charlie?”

  “Surviving. I worry about his health. Doesn’t eat right. He’s also trying to raise his teenage daughter by himself. A bit of a stress case.”

  “Charlie’s a good man. Tries to do right by people.” Kramer took another sip of tea. “John Carmichael was murdered, if you want my opinion. Went missing back in 1984. I was a rookie cop at the time, but as I recall there was some speculation that foul play was involved. I think he had something to do with the movie industry.”

  “A wannabe filmmaker,” Natalie chimed in. She turned to me. “Sorry, I’ve been like a horse with a bit since you asked for me help.”

  “Our interest in this is confidential, not official,” I told Kramer. I nodded toward my friend. “Natalie’s done a little research.”

  “John Carmichael owned a small studio,” Natalie said. “As far as I can determine, he worked on some advertisements for the telly but wanted to eventually make flicks. He made the rent by doing some fighting work.”

  “Fighting?”

  “You know those big guys that wear undies and prance around.”

  I drew a blank.

  “You mean wrestling?” Kramer asked.

  “That’s it. Throw each other around and scream. It’s mostly actin’ if you want me two cents.”

  “All the world’s a stage,” Kramer said.

  I had the impression the retired detective already liked Natalie. But who doesn’t?

  Natalie went on, “Carmichael was the guy behind the fighters who set up the shows.”

  “A promoter,” I said.

  “Yes, but strictly small time. I spoke to a lad who knew him back then. Said Carmichael was a lager boy, always looking for a good time. Looks like he musta poked the privates, but there’s no record of a marriage to Cassie’s mother or that he even paid child support.”

  “Any idea if her mother’s still alive?” I asked.

  Natalie shook her head. “Her birth mum was a lady named Gloria Stallings. I’m doing some more snoopin’, trying to find out if she’s around. Not gettin’ anywhere on the wires.”

  “The Internet,” I explained for Kramer’s benefit.

  “That’s a good start,” I said. “Thanks Nat.” I turned to Kramer. “So you remember the Carmichael case. I’m surprised.”

  “Before I made detective, I made it a point to keep up on things. A guy in my shoes had to prove himself.”

  “Charlie told me that I’d be talking to a living legend.”

  Kramer waved a hand. “Just a survivor, lucky enough to have gotten a few promotions in between the riots, assassinations, homicides, and the general pillaging and plundering that goes on in society.”

  During the next few minutes, Natalie and I were enthralled by the story of Pearl Kramer’s thirty years with the LAPD, how he’d worked his way up from a beat cop in the early eighties to chief of the Hollywood Division Detective Bureau where he retired.

  “Lots of history in the city, even before I became a cop,” Pearl said. “Worked with some old-timers who had stories about the Marilyn Monroe suicide, the Watts riots, the Bobby Kennedy assassination, even a guy named Charlie Manson. It was never boring.”

  “Blimey,” Natalie said. “I’d like to hear about Marilyn sometime. I heard the president once did the wick dip with the old girl.”

  I said to Kramer, “Do you have any idea whatever came of the investigation into John Carmichael’s death?”

  Kramer set his drink down. “The detectives working the case closed it a few weeks after his disappearance. I made a point of asking about it and was told to butt out.”

  “You think there was some kind of cover up?”

  “I think that, without a body, it made it easy to close a case that was only a missing person investigation.” He stroked his chin. “There was also a different standard in those days.”

  “You said earlier that you think Carmichael was murdered.”

  “Guy disappears under suspicious circumstances. Case gets closed without much of an investigation. Thirty years later his daughter calls a cop, says she knows what happened. She ends up dead. Cop she called gets framed.” The retired detective looked from me to Natalie. “What do you ladies think?”

  Natalie clapped her hands. “I think we’ve gotta mega-mystery.”

  Kramer somehow knew all about our case. “You must have talked to Charlie.”

  He exposed a gap in his front teeth when he smiled. “Jack. He called a few minutes after you did. Said he doesn’t want you involved.”

  “Jack and Charlie are a royal pain.” I removed a photograph from my purse and handed it to Kramer. “This isn’t just about Jack Bautista, Mr. Kramer.”

  “Pearl,” he said, taking the photograph of Cassie Reynolds.

  “It’s from one of those websites that offers classmate photographs. It was taken during Cassie’s senior year in high school.”

  Natalie stood up and examined the photograph over Pearl’s shoulder. There was something sad and haunting in the image. Cassie’s smile seemed posed, in the manner of a child who turns up her lips without the smile ever reaching her eyes.

  “It’s about what you told us earlier,” I said. “Sometimes a crime finds you and you try to be true to the people involved.”

  Pearl handed back the photograph. “Cassie Reynolds was a beautiful young girl.” He checked his watch. “Afraid I have to be somewhere twenty minutes ago.”

  We followed him back to my car. After I let Bernie into the backseat, Pearl opened the doors for us. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Detective.”

  He turned to Natalie who was still beaming with enthusiasm. “This crime has waited thirty years to find all of us. Now, it’s our turn to be true to the people left behind.”

  “Brilliant,” Natalie said. “I’m ready to go Miss Marple on the maggot who murdered Cassie Reynolds.”

  Chapter Seven

  Nathan Kane sits in a chair across from the psychiatrist. The blue-and-white office furnishings compliment the red border on the wall in Marsha Wentworth’s office.

  It looks like the state hired an interior decorator. Everything matches. Maybe he’s supposed to appreciate the patriotic décor, join the fucking army when he gets out and fight for the country that locked him up.

  Wentworth has been careful. No photographs of her husband or daughter are on the shelves. There isn’t anything that reveals a hobby or interest on her desk. Nothing shows that the psychiatrist has a life outside the prison walls. Kane knows that isn’t true. He’s seen her diamond ring, knows she’s married and has a daughter.

  It’s been forty-eight hours since he last received an update on Jack Bautista. The wanted detective is still on the run. If Cassie Reynolds talked to the cop, things could begin to unravel. When he gets out of prison, there will be no choice but to take matters into his own hands—if the detective is still alive.

  Ther
e’s also the matter of the female cop who’s been interfering. He knows Bautista called her. Sexton has to be watched closely; kept out of the way.

  There’s no way he’s going to let a thirty-year-old secret put his freedom in jeopardy. But first there’s another issue on his agenda.

  Kane shifts in his chair. The psychiatrist looks up, observing his symptoms: constant impaired swallowing, choking on excess saliva, uncontrolled sweating, tremors in his hands and feet. There’s also his soft whispery voice that sometimes answers her questions in a confused, incoherent manner.

  After observing twenty minutes of the charade, Dr. Wentworth runs a hand through her long brown hair and shakes her head.

  “I’m afraid I’m just not convinced, Mr. Kane.” She pauses and then turns a page in the thick file next to his medical records. “And there’s also the matter of your criminal record. The law requires that I balance the risk of your release against your medical incapacitation.” She closes the file. “It isn’t your adult record that bothers me so much, although your crime was serious and violent. It’s your delinquency record as a child that I’m concerned about.”

  Kane almost laughs out loud. He’s in his late fifties and the shrink is concerned about something that happened when he was a kid? How much do they pay these idiots?

  “When you were thirteen,” Wentworth continues, “your parents were killed by an intruder. You went to live with your aunt and uncle. They had a dog.”

  Something inside the convicted killer stirs—a memory almost forgotten. He suppresses a smile.

  “According to the reports, you were involved in some cruelty resulting in the dog’s death.”

  Fucking animal lover. That’s all he needs.

  “Your aunt and uncle informed the police that they came home one evening and found that their golden retriever’s fur had been shaved off.”

  The suggestion of a smile forms on the patient’s lips. His dark features are dim, his breath coming in short hard gasps as the memory surfaces.

  “When they found the dog, they realized that you had also removed the animal’s skin.” The psychiatrist pitches forward, tries to make eye contact. “You skinned the dog while he was alive and then removed his sexual organs.”

  Kane’s eyes sweep over her, glimpsing the horror in her eyes.

  “That act was followed by several others over the years, just as inhumane and deviant.”

  He considers this with detached amusement, remembering what had begun with animals until he graduated to neighborhood kids and a couple of strangers. He feels himself getting hard.

  “It’s been my experience, Mr. Kane, that acts involving sexual violence are never easily treated. They require years of professional help. Your files show that you received only minimal interventions and incarceration for your actions.”

  The psychiatrist studies him again. “In my professional opinion, given your history, you may still be a threat to the community if you are not incarcerated. I’m also not convinced your medical symptoms are consistent with a severe enough incapacitation to merit release. I’m going to recommend your parole be denied.”

  What has been only a hint of a smile widens. It begins to spread to Kane’s dark features. His granite eyes blink, the pupils narrowing as his gaze comes up to hers. When he speaks, his husky, labored voice is barely audible.

  “In the drawer…behind you.”

  The psychiatrist is startled by his sudden statement. “I’m afraid I don’t understand?”

  He loves the confusion, the dawning realization that she’s been right about him. Would it later be any consolation? Probably not.

  Kane raises his voice a notch, the heavy, labored tone that he’s practiced for months now clearing. “In the cabinet, Dr. Wentworth. Bottom drawer on the right.”

  He sees the anxiety rising behind her eyes. Will she go for the panic alarm around her neck? No. He sees that she has the need to know.

  The psychiatrist swivels in her chair and opens the filing cabinet. A horrified gasp follows as she pushes her chair away and moves her hand up to set off the alarm.

  It’s too late.

  “Finally,” Kane says, rising and grabbing her arm, twisting it away from the alarm button. “I think we’re beginning to make some progress, Doctor.”

  Behind the attractive psychiatrist, the drawer in the blue lacquered filing cabinet is still open. The remains of a kitten are resting there. The young feline, a family pet, is barely recognizable. The eyes and ears had been removed, its tail severed.

  But the dead animal is only part of what has horrified the psychiatrist. Kane knows she recognizes the dress and lacy white panties next to the dead kitten. The good doctor probably made the purchases as part of her daughter’s school clothes wardrobe.

  Dr. Wentworth looks into her patient’s eyes as he pins her to the wall, her voice now shrill and pleading, “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

  He takes the panic alarm from around her neck and places it on the desk. He pulls her over to the cabinet, reaches down and removes the child’s clothing, turning the blue-and-white checkered dress over.

  The killer puts a hand up, covering Marsha Wentworth’s mouth and stifling a scream. Her daughter’s dress is covered with blood.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day I took a late morning break and stopped by the Records and Identification Bureau. My mouth gaped open when Wilma Bibby came to the counter.

  “What happened to your hair, Wilma?” Behind her there was a bureaucratic buzz, phones rang and files were being sifted and sorted.

  The middle-aged records clerk said, “I finally got the nerve to ask George over for dinner.” Her hair was a mess. No contacts. Glasses again framed dull gray eyes. “He turned me down.” She moved a stack of files on her desk from one place to another with no apparent purpose.

  I reached across the counter, touching Wilma’s shoulder. Her flower print dress was cut all wrong for her, did nothing to hide her gently rounded figure.

  Three weeks earlier, a makeover, a Channel black jacket dress, and an afternoon at Sinclair’s Salon had given Wilma a confidence that was now shattered. I wanted to bust George’s balls.

  “He’s just one man, Wilma. Maybe he’s already got a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.”

  Wilma shook her head. Her eyes lowered, then her voice. “I heard through the grapevine that he’s single and looking—just not for me.”

  I did an eye roll and pushed up the sleeves of my fitted pink cardigan sweater. “Maybe the grapevine is wrong. Maybe he is gay.” My voice lowered, just above Wilma’s earlier whisper. “Maybe Georgie boy just missed out on terrific food, wonderful conversation, and great sex.”

  Wilma giggled, cut her eyes to the clerks working beside her. She put a finger to her lips. “I don’t even remember what sex is.”

  I scratched my head, trying to dredge up a memory. “I’ve heard it involves two or more people getting naked. They sometimes end up in bed, although it can happen in other locations.” My voice dropped another notch. “I’ve even been told there can be something called foreplay involved, although I’ve never personally encountered it.”

  “Stop it.” Wilma chuckled, gesturing to the other clerks again.

  “Then there’s the act itself. If it’s done right, I’ve heard it can be like being pushed over Niagara Falls in a barrel with someone you try to imagine is Brad Pitt.”

  “Kate!”

  “Okay, I’ll stop. But I’m going to make you another hair appointment.” I leaned forward. “Wilma, you just lost round one. Time to come out swinging.”

  I pointed to the endless rows of filing cabinets and boxes behind her. “Don’t suppose you had any luck with the Carmichael records I called about.”

  She shook her head. “The file would be in pre-imaging so it takes a hand search, especially for something that old.” She must have seen my blank expression. “The department is digitally storing the archived records. It should eventually save us a lot of
space. Everything from the mid-nineties forward has been converted to the computerized storage system. All the records prior to that time are still in a hard copy format.”

  The computer project probably meant job security for Wilma, but it wasn’t helping me out. “Aren’t the files organized by year? The file I’m looking for would include an initial Missing Persons Report from September 1984 and follow-up reports.”

  “I’m still searching. The older records are a mess. Sometimes the files from different investigations and different years have been merged. So far, the records from 1984 haven’t turned up anything on your case, but I haven’t given up. I’ve got a couple of other clerks also checking.”

  There was no way I could let Baker and Kennedy, or for that matter IAD, get wind of my inquiry.

  “I’d prefer that you do the search on your own. This is on the down low.” She nodded. “And call me right away if anything turns up.” Pushing away from the counter, I added, “I’ll call you later about that hair appointment.”

  ***

  It was early afternoon as I drove back to Hollywood Station. Olive’s wipers, a metronome on the windshield, announced that October’s heat had faded into the fog of fall. I encountered drizzle and wet pavement as I parked.

  Bernie and I found Charlie in the squad room eating a burrito while finishing up reports on the morning arrests. He motioned to the burrito plate he’d ordered for me as I settled in. A familiar voice killed my appetite.

  A hello growled in the corridor. I turned and saw Marvin Drake with Jessica Barlow. She followed behind, making small talk with the captain. They left the station, walking through the parking lot together. What was the captain of Wilshire Division doing in my territory?

  “If Drake suddenly stops, Jessica would have to be surgically removed from the captain’s anus,” I said to Charlie.

  “Not a pretty picture.”

  “Might explain her shit-eating grin.”

  “Woman’s a piranha in a push-up bra.”

  “Didn’t think you noticed.”