Hollywood Intrigue: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  “So we’re looking for an immature little asshole with a limp dick,” Dawson said, looking up from his puzzle again. “Hey, maybe he’s an FBI administrator. Why don’t you go look for him upstairs, Sigmund?”

  There was muted laughter as Spender’s cheeks flushed. “If you don’t want to take this seriously or want my assistance, I’ll be happy to leave.”

  Dawson shrugged. “There’s the door. Tell ‘em howdy when you get off the elevator.”

  The profiler shoved some paperwork into his briefcase and stomped out of the room.

  “Anybody else?” Dawson said, his eyes finding Janice Taylor, the Quantico profiler.

  “I think it’s too early to say anything conclusive,” Taylor said.

  The profiler was probably in her mid-thirties. She was slender with brown hair that was about the same length as mine, without any of the frizzy qualities I had to endure.

  Taylor went on, “I believe that Agent Schwab is correct. The four lines we see are forming the basis of a larger work. The poem has the girl asking about the value of life, whether or not it’s an arrangement of profit. The Prophet begins to answer her by using the keyword design. Unfortunately, I think he would have to continue the killings to reveal his complete answer about the design that he sees in the world.” Taylor brushed her hair back. “I’ll run this past my behavioral analysis group at Quantico and let you know if I come up with anything more.”

  Dawson raised a brow but otherwise didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if he agreed with what Taylor had postulated or was just annoyed with her. He motioned to the LAPD side of the table. “What do you locals have to say for yourselves?”

  “We know that our suspect did similar crimes to the ones perpetrated here in Georgia and Florida four years ago,” Christine Belmont said. “Depravity of this type doesn’t just surface sporadically and then abate. Maybe there are other crimes out there that we don’t know about.”

  Alex Hardy supported what his partner had theorized. “We need to relook at VICAP, go back to the jurisdictions where the first two crimes occurred and see what we can turn up.”

  “We do that and all we turn up are a bunch of turnips,” Dawson said. “Local yokels who fucked up the first case.” He checked his watch and then looked back at Belmont and Hardy. “Tell you what. Why don’t you two start doing exactly what you just said. Take another look at the first two cases, talk to the departments that did the investigations, relook at all the state and federal databases, and let us know what you find out.”

  “We’re going to need additional manpower,” Hardy barked. “You’re talking about something that will take hours of work.”

  “Then why don’t you go hook up with Sigmund? Maybe the three of you can find an anxiety ridden teenager with a wasp collection who needs some Viagra.”

  Belmont and Hardy exchanged looks, doing a slow burn, but otherwise didn’t respond. Maybe they were simply in a state of shock about the way Dawson handled things.

  The big FBI agent asked our side of the table for additional input or theories. I decided to ask him what I came to the meeting to find out about. “Tell us about Lucas Caufield.”

  Dawson rubbed his big jaw and regarded me like something had just occurred to him. “I’m going to do better than that. I’ll let you meet the guy who’s an expert on The Prophet. There’s only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lucas Caufield can’t talk.”

  TWENTY THREE

  “If the auditions go well, I might get a part in the play,” Lexi said, her voice bubbling over with excitement after I answered my phone.

  Bernie and I were in the car with Joe Dawson, on the way to meet with Lucas Caufield in Encino, about ten miles from Hollywood.

  Dawson’s boss, John Greer, had shown up after Jeremy Spender lodged a complaint about his treatment at the taskforce meeting. Greer had divided up assignments, agreeing with Belmont and Hardy’s suggestion that some research and contact needed to be done with the local jurisdictions where the first two crimes had occurred. Unfortunately, he’d also chosen Ted and Selfie to be part of that working group.

  “That’s really exciting,” I said, visualizing Lexi dressed like someone from the play Our Town, set in the early 1900’s. “When are the tryouts?”

  “Friday night. I was wondering if…maybe…could you give me a ride? My grandparents’ car is still in the repair shop.”

  After asking her what time she needed to be at the school, I agreed to take her and ended the call.

  “You adopt a kid since I last saw you?” Dawson asked as I put my phone away.

  “Something like that. She was homeless for a while. I’m just helping her out.”

  “You always were a do-gooder, Buttercup.”

  I regarded him for a moment, remembering that he’d once told me he had a daughter. “Don’t tell me that you never took your daughter on a school outing?”

  He didn’t look at me. “Too busy chasing bad guys.” His gaze finally came over and his voice softened. “One of my big regrets.”

  “Where is she now—your daughter?”

  He scratched his chin, looked back at the highway. “Not exactly sure. Haven’t spoken in a couple of years.”

  “It’s never too late.” He didn’t respond. After a lengthy silence, I decided to change the subject. “So, tell me about Lucas Caufield.”

  Dawson brushed a hand through his graying hair. “That covers a lot of ground.” He took a moment, maybe gathering his thoughts before going on. “Caufield was the principal agent assigned to the Florida case. He was there every step of the way; he found the poem sent to the girl’s pastor, investigated the crime scene, and took part in the raid on Oliver Gorm’s house.” He found my eyes. “He also talked to The Prophet.”

  “How did he arrange that?”

  “As I mentioned before, the case got sensationalized when somebody sent The Prophet’s letter to the press. Caufield was quoted in a couple of articles and The Prophet contacted him a few days later. From what I know, they went on to have several conversations. Caufield became an expert on him until…”

  Dawson had turned off the freeway and hit a surface street before going on. “…until he got ALS. The guy had to retire from the agency right after the Florida murder. He moved in with his aunt out here and I’m told he’s been in declining health ever since.”

  I took a moment, processing what he’d said. I then asked him, “And he can’t talk?”

  Dawson shook his head. “I’ve heard he uses an electronic voice modulator, kind of like that physicist.”

  “Steven Hawking?”

  “Yeah.” We turned into a residential neighborhood. “There’s something else you should know about him.”

  Dawson pulled to the curb in front of an older Spanish style house with a wrought iron fence and bars over the windows. He looked at me. “Caufield likes younger, attractive women.”

  I laughed. “And I thought I was chosen because of my investigative skills.”

  His lips turned up. “You’re eye candy, Buttercup. If Caufield likes what he sees, he might talk to you, otherwise we’re dead in the water.”

  “Maybe I should show a little cleavage.” Not that I had much to show.

  Dawson’s smile grew wider, his eyes shifting and taking in the skirt I was wearing. “And maybe some leg.” He found my eyes again. “Use all the candy in the box, sweetheart. You’re the only chance we’ve got.”

  I got Bernie out of the backseat, thinking that Joe Dawson hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen him. Despite him being chauvinistic and an insensitive loud-mouth, there was something about him that I had to admit I liked. He was a larger than life, immutable figure, but at least he was a constant in a world where change seemed like the one overwhelming fact of life.

  As we moved up the sidewalk Dawson said, “Caufield’s aunt knows you’re coming, but you’ll be on your own with him.” He stopped and met my eyes. “One other thing, make sure you don’t me
ntion my name.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “Caufield and I have some history. I’m not his favorite guy.” He held out his hand. “I’ll walk the dog while you have your little chat.”

  I handed over Bernie’s leash. “Imagine that, you having history with someone.”

  He walked away, as I moved up to the porch and rang the bell. A woman answered and, after introductions, Lucas Caufield’s aunt let me inside. Karen Taft was probably in her early sixties. She was short, on the plain side, and had long gray hair that she wore in a ponytail. Taft was direct in her manner, giving me the impression that she controlled all aspects of her nephew’s life.

  “The agency explained why you’re here,” Taft said. “Lucas has agreed to talk to you but…” She turned to me as we stopped in a hallway. “I can’t make any promises. Sometimes my brother is…” She exhaled. “I’m just not sure he’ll want to cooperate.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Taft regarded me for a moment. “Just so you know, he hasn’t been around…” Her gaze slid over me. “…a woman in a long time.” She turned the door knob. “Good luck.”

  I was unprepared for the figure that I saw in the darkened room. Lucas Caufield was turned away from us, his wheelchair positioned in such a way that he could look out a window into the backyard. The bedroom had a hospital bed near a cluster of machines that swished and whirred, no doubt assisting with his breathing. The room was hot and dark, and had a slightly medicinal smell. Something about it reminded me of a musty basement.

  “Lucas, this is Detective Sexton who I mentioned was coming by,” Taft said. “She’s here to talk to you.”

  Caufield didn’t move or respond. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard his aunt.

  Taft said to me, “I’ll be down the hallway when you’re finished.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  I moved closer to Caufield and said, “I’m here about the last case you worked—the man who calls himself The Prophet.”

  There was no response and still no movement. I came around the bed until I was a few feet from his wheelchair. The dim light from the window revealed that he had sandy hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. His complexion was pasty, his face thin. I had the impression that the broken man in front of me had been handsome at one time, but the disease had transformed him. I sensed that he was someone changed, who knew he would soon no longer be part of this world.

  I softened my tone. “I would appreciate anything you can tell me.”

  “Are…you…marr…ied?” The electronic voice startled me, coming from somewhere behind him. The timbre was dark and menacing. I realized that Caufield had been tapping a button on a device he held in his hand and there was a screen mounted in front of him. He had been typing the words and reading them as they appeared on the screen and were spoken by the speech synthesizer.

  “No…I’m…” I started to say I was divorced but thought better of it. “I’m single.”

  I moved even closer to him and found a chair. As I took a seat his dark eyes came up, taking in my face before moving lower and finding my skirt. After a moment, his gaze went back to the computer screen.

  I waited while his finger tapped the device again and the electronic voice came back. “Do…you…like sex?”

  The question was so unexpected that for a moment I didn’t know how to respond. I brushed a hand over my skirt, breathed, and said, “I’m here about The Prophet, Mr. Caufield. Can you help me with that?”

  There was more tapping, until the electronic voice said, “When was…the last time?”

  I shook my head, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I then thought about Jenna Collins and Lori March and forced myself to give it another try. “Some girls were murdered a few days ago. We think it was The Prophet’s work. He sent some poetry to a pastor at the church one of the victim’s attended.”

  I removed a copy of the two-line poem from my briefcase and held it up. “It’s similar to the other poem, the one found on the case you worked in Florida.”

  His hand moved again and I waited for the electronic response. “I want…to…smell you.”

  My cheeks flushed and I raised my voice. “Mr. Caufield, I am not…”

  “Just…your…hand.” His brooding eyes found me. It might have been my imagination but I thought his lips parted. “Please.”

  Maybe it was my desperate need to talk to him, or maybe some part of me felt sorry for him. I stood up and moved closer to him. “After this, we talk.”

  “Okay.”

  I held my hand near his face. I waited several seconds before moving it away. “Now tell me about The Prophet.”

  He tapped and I waited for his response. “Read…the poem.”

  I unfolded the paper. “I’ll read it along with the lines found in Florida because we think it all fits together.” I exhaled and then went on,

  “What do we have,” the girl asked The Prophet,

  “Is life of value or merely for profit?”

  “The answer, my child, is in the design.

  Look around and here’s what you find.”

  I held my breath, waiting several seconds for his response, praying that he would cooperate. Finally, I heard something that I never expected. “There is…a change in…the world.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  After more typing, I heard, “The Prophet is back…at work. Another victim…will be taken…soon.”

  “Why is this happening now and here, after all this time?”

  There was more typing and the voice said. “The Prophet’s…been…nesting.”

  “Nesting?”

  Another pause and then, “Finding apprentices…waiting for…an adversary.”

  “Apprentices?” The air in the room seemed to grow heavy, the heat stifling. When he didn’t respond, I asked, “Who is the adversary?”

  I was conscious of the whir and hiss of machinery as I again waited, the seconds dragging by. The room felt like it had closed in around me, sealing off the external world.

  There was the hint of what I again thought might be a smile before I heard Lucas Caufield’s one word response.

  “You.”

  TWENTY FOUR

  The workshop door slams shut and a dim overhead light illuminates Tyler Linden’s workshop. He whistles as he makes his way over to the workbench.

  “You need to find a corner,” he says to Ginger when the golden retriever comes over to him, wagging her tail. When she doesn’t comply, he uses his boot to push her away and screams, “Lay down.” The dog whimpers and scampers off.

  Linden stops and removes all his clothing. In a moment he’s naked. His white, bloated body is slick with sweat as he anticipates what lies ahead. He walks over and hits the light switch next to the workbench. A blaze of light illuminates the photographs that he takes from a folder beneath the bench. He takes his time, pinning each picture to the corkboard above the bench.

  “Pretty little dead girls,” he says, laughing and examining The Prophet’s past victims. He then takes a final photograph from the stack and pins it up next to the others. He puts on his glasses, his round, bulging eyes examining the girl closely. He strokes himself as he says, “And you’re next, my pretty one.”

  While he pleasures himself and studies the girl, Linden recalls what has led to this moment. He had just been released from prison and was working part-time at a warehouse, sorting packages and barely making ends meet. One day a note appeared in his locker, asking if he wanted to become an apprentice. At first, he’d ignored the message thinking maybe it was some kind of joke. But when other messages appeared, he began to think about what was being offered. Then one day he found a cell phone in his locker. That night, someone who had called himself The Apostle had called. His words were still imprinted on Linden’s mind.

  “I have a proposition for you,” The Apostle had said. “I want you to find a girl, someone very special.”

&nb
sp; “A girl…for what?”

  “In time you will see…for now, I just want you to trust me and do as I say.”

  “But…why me?”

  “Because you have been chosen by The Prophet.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who is Chosen, the one you have been waiting for. Money, power, and love, it’s all waiting for you, if you make the right decision and do his will.”

  After that night, weeks of conversation had followed. Linden had eventually met the man who called himself The Apostle. He explained that he was a facilitator, someone who would explain exactly how to find and take a girl. The Apostle then spent hours with him, telling him what it meant to be an apprentice.

  “Your life is now very special,” The Apostle had said. “You are no longer a man, you are part of something much more powerful and fulfilling. You are now an apprentice to the Chosen One.”

  “Can I meet The Prophet?” he remembers asking The Apostle one day.

  “Perhaps someday…but first you must prove that you are worthy.”

  In the weeks that followed, Linden had come to understand that he was indeed special, chosen to become something much larger and more important than his life before meeting The Apostle.

  The memories fade as Linden shudders and his body convulses with pleasure. When it’s over, he removes the photographs and places them in a bag beneath the workbench. He then walks over to the door that leads to the back of the workshop. As he turns the knob, he feels himself changing. Tyler Linden is no longer a man; he has been transformed into an apprentice, someone chosen by The Prophet for glory.

  When he pushes the door open, the apprentice hears the familiar soft buzzing sound. He hits the switch, illuminating the glass cages. The buzzing becomes a roar as the giant insects swarm against the heated glass panes.