In Cold Blonde

by James L. Conway

  He was also a master at digitally manipulating the pictures his staff shot, highlighting and sometimes enhancing things such as cellulite for magazines looking for Stars-at-their-Worst shots, or thinning a thigh here or increasing a breast size there for a Stars-at-their-Best story.

  Blake lived in small beach house on Carbon Beach, one of the twenty-four beaches that make up the twenty-seven mile Malibu coastline. He got the down payment selling pictures of Angelina Jolie going down on Brad Pitt. No matter that the photo was later proved fake, a product of his digital mastery; he’d already raked in three quarters of a million dollars.

  Blake was short, with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows. He spoke in rapid, profanity-laden bursts of words and was unabashedly rude.

  He put one hand on the breast of each girl then twisted the nipple. With a start, both girls yelped and sat up in bed. They were both blonde and billed themselves as a sister act, but they weren’t related.

  They’d treated Blake to an incredibly hot lesbian love fest, fueled by Stoli shots and cocaine, before he finally dove in and screwed them both. And he woke up horny.

  “The snake needs servicing girls,” he said. It’s amazing how crude you’re allowed to be when you pay two thousand dollars a girl. “But first, do me a favor and warm up on each other.”

  The girls were actually in love with one another so they happily fell into each other’s arms and began to make out.

  Blake grabbed the remote control and turned on the 60-inch LCD hanging on the wall. As they girls ravished each other in front of him, the muted news played behind them. There was a weather map on the screen, another beautiful Southern California day in the offing and then the screen cut to a picture of Colin Wood.

  It took Blake a couple of seconds to register it was the picture of his friend, Colin Wood. Blake hit the Mute button. “…found dead in his car outside the Havoc nightclub. Police aren’t speculating on a motive for the murder right now, but are asking for the public’s help in identifying a blonde woman who was last seen with the actor. Ironically, one of the detectives investigating the murder has just hit the Lotto. His name is…”

  Blake hit the mute button. Colin was dead. Jesus. They’d been friends since high school and would still hang out every once in a while. Blake remembered Colin’s old girlfriend, Abigail. She was hot. Blake always wanted to take a shot at her, but resisted because he knew it would bug Colin. But now that Colin was dead…

  Blake smiled; Abigail was a struggling actress so it would easy to get her number. His eyes shifted to the girls who now had their faces planted in each other’s vaginas. He watched them gobble each other up, but he was thinking about Abigail.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I’ve got a good feeling about today,” Syd said. She was working her cell phone as Ryan threaded his way through morning rush hour traffic. She checked her notebook, and dialed. “Today we take one more step on the road to immortality. Today we’re going to get a lead on the Lady in Red case, we’re going to tenaciously follow that lead using intuition, skill and a little luck, and after a stunning revelation or two, we’ll break the case wide open, bringing the murdering bitch to justice.”

  Ryan smiled, got to love her enthusiasm. “Before or after lunch?”

  “That depends on when,” she glanced at the bottlenecked traffic, “or if you finally get us to the office. Yes, hello,” she said shifting to her official voice as the cell phone was answered. “This is Detective Syd Curtis, Los Angeles Police Department; I’d like to speak to Mr. Reade please.” Chris Reade was Kathy Tuttle’s lawyer, the attorney who handled the half-million-dollar settlement she received from Colin Wood’s father. “Yes, I know I’ve called before,” Syd said patiently. “In fact, I think I left two voice mails on your phone last night which speaks to the urgency of our situation. We’re in the middle of an ongoing murder investigation and Mr. Reade may have information critical to the case.” Syd listened for a few moments, scribbled down a note then said, “That would be great, thank you.” She hung up, turned to Ryan. “He’s out of town. He’s been in Miami for the last few days and is now on a flight to New York, scheduled to land in less than an hour. She’ll make sure he calls as soon as he checks in.”

  “Great.”

  Syd called Colin Wood’s father but just got his voice mail, again. “Still not answering,” she said. “Hello, this is Detective Syd Curtis, LAPD, we need to speak to you as soon as possible, Mr. Wood, so please call us back.” She left her number and disconnected. “Why is this guy so hard to get a hold of?”

  “Think he’s hiding something?”

  “Hard to say. I can’t imagine he’s involved in his own son’s murder, but I did get the feeling he knew more than he told us at the morgue yesterday.”

  Ryan sensed the same thing. “Me, too.” Ryan’s cell phone rang; he glanced at the caller ID, Anne. An excited thrill shot through him, surprising him. Was he excited because of the money or because he’d be talking to her?

  Syd read the same reaction. “Let me guess,” she said. “The former Mrs. Magee.”

  “You’d make a pretty good detective, you know that,” Ryan said and then he answered the phone. “Good morning.”

  “Morning, Handsome. I’ve got some papers I need you to sign this morning. I’m just leaving my CPA’s office now and I can be at the Hollywood Division in about fifteen minutes. You going to be there?”

  “I’m about five minutes away.”

  “Good. And, Ryan, things are going to move kind of fast the next couple of days. We’ve got a lot of work to do setting up this foundation before tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No problem.”

  “And keep tomorrow morning clear, I’m calling the lottery office as soon as we hang up and asking for an eleven o’clock presentation.”

  “Eleven o’clock, got it.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Anne hung up.

  Syd unhappily watched Ryan’s side of the phone call. Ryan was hanging on Anne’s every word and his excitement was palpable. “She’s coming to the station?”

  Ryan nodded. “I’ve got some papers to sign.”

  Syd simply nodded.

  Ryan picked up her mood. “You said last night you were okay with this.”

  “I am,” she said, smiling at Ryan. But she wasn’t. She’d accepted his taking the money, sort of. At least there was some logic to that. But she had a major problem with Ryan spending so much time with his ex-wife. She just didn’t know what to do about it. Yet.

  Every cop on the force had heard about Ryan’s Lotto ticket by now so he was besieged by well-wishers at the station, high-fiving him as he made his way down the hallway. When Ryan and Syd stepped into the bullpen, Ryan’s eyes went to the guest chair next to his desk. It was empty. No coverall-clad tow truck driver to ruin his day.

  But a pile of yellow phone messages were piled on his desk.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said picking up the stack. “There must be a hundred of them.” He thumbed through a few. “Calls from the Today Show, Good Morning America, CBS, CNN, Fox News.”

  “Ah, the official start of your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Time, Newsweek, New York Times, L.A. Times, Chicago Tribune; don’t these guys have real news to write about?”

  Syd picked up the one message on her desk. “I got a call from my hairdresser.”

  Ryan rifled through the messages. “There are calls from stock brokers, financial planners, girls I dated in high school, and guys I haven’t seen in years.”

  “And they all want your money. Tell me, Ryan, just how are you going to decide who is entitled to share your bounty?”

  “Hell if I know.” Then Ryan cocked his head. “Do you smell something?”

  “What’s that?” Syd asked pointing to a paper bag sitting on the corner of Ryan’s desk.

  Ryan opened the bag, took out a plastic covered dish. “Meatball soup.” Something else was in the bag. Ryan pulled it out. “And a business plan for
Maribel’s Meatballs.”

  Hanrahan stepped up. “I love albondigas.”

  “Here,” Ryan said shoving the dish into the Lieutenant’s hands.

  “Thanks,” Hanrahan said. “Anything new on the Lady in Red?”

  “Apparently Colin Wood didn’t believe that no means no.”

  “There are two cases of date rape we know of so far,” Syd said. “And we’re guessing that we’ll find more.”

  “And you think the Lady in Red was one of his victims?”

  Syd nodded. “Don’t suppose any bodies turned up last night with a relocated penis?”

  “No.” Hanrahan eyed Ryan’s pile of messages. “I’m hoping those are from concerned citizens with tips on the Colin Wood murder, but I’m guessing they’re from people hoping to pick your newly enriched pockets.”

  “Yep.”

  “Just remember to save a little for your brothers in blue.”

  “And the inspirational man you work for,” Syd said.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Hanrahan took his meatballs and headed back to his office passing Anne who walked in, spotted Ryan, smiled and joined him.

  “Good morning,” she said giving him a peck on the cheek, but her eyes were on Syd. She didn’t like what she saw. Way too cute, and from the way Syd was looking back at her, way too possessive.

  Syd wanted to strangle Anne right there and then. She hated the all too familiar way she kissed Ryan on the cheek. And she was so fucking beautiful.

  “Anne,” Ryan said, “I want you to meet my partner, Syd Curtis.”

  “How do you do,” Anne said extending her hand. Syd took it and they shook, both squeezing a bit too hard.

  “A pleasure,” Syd said, smiling so insincerely it could only mean one thing.

  She’s fucking him, Anne realized. The little bitch is fucking Ryan. This may complicate things. “Look, I know you guys are busy, so if I can just borrow Ryan for a few minutes…”

  Ryan indicted the empty conference room. “This way.”

  Syd watched them cross the room. Anne was everything Syd admired in a woman: smart, confidant, successful. And one thing she hated; predatory. Anne had her sights set on Ryan, Syd could tell.

  Shit, Syd thought, this woman was going to be trouble.

  “Syd seems nice,” Anne said as Ryan closed the conference room door. Anne opened her attaché case, pulled out some papers. “How long have you been partners?”

  “Just a couple of months,” Ryan said, nonchalantly. He didn’t want to give any indication they were having an affair. But Anne had always been able to read him like a book, so he suspected she had already figured it out. “Syd transferred in after making a name for herself in Vice.”

  Anne wanted to probe further, but resisted the temptation. First things first, she decided; getting the lottery money was priority one. “You’re going to get a check for thirty-four million dollars tomorrow,” she said laying the papers out on the table, “and the immediate problem becomes what you do with it. Individual bank accounts are only insured for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per account per bank, so we’re going to spread some of the money to a network of banks and buy thirty-day T-bills with the rest. These documents give me your power-of-attorney to open the accounts and buy the T-bills, but nothing can be sold or withdrawn without your signature.”

  “So you can’t steal my money.”

  Anne looked at him to see if he was kidding, realized he wasn’t. “That’s right. Only you can get at the money. Ryan, you do trust me, don’t you?”

  If they were going to be working together, Ryan needed to clear the air. He knew how he felt, but he wasn’t the kind of man who liked to vocalize his insecurities or fears. Like many men, he bottled everything up. But this was an extraordinary circumstance and called for extraordinary candor. “I trusted you with my life and you broke my heart.”

  If there was ever a doubt Anne still loved Ryan, it vanished with those words. Now it was time to start winning that heart back. “And I’ve regretted it ever since,” Anne said. “To be honest, I’ve never been happier than I was those three years we were married. I was a fool to leave you. And if it makes you feel any better, Rick and I are getting a divorce.”

  Ryan’s heart leapt, catching him by surprise. Suddenly Anne was available again. And part of Ryan wanted to win her back. Prove to her that leaving him was a terrible idea. And part of him was still loyal to Syd. He had no idea what to say, so he settled on, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it was a long time coming. A fresh start is just what I need, personally and professionally. Ryan, your winning the Lotto couldn’t have come at a better time.” She took out a pen, handed it to him and then with her best courtroom closing argument sincerity she said, “You can trust me, Ryan. I promise.”

  Ryan looked into the face he loved for so long, missed for so long. He believed her. “Okay.” He took the pen.

  “Just sign here and here and I’ll get to work on opening these accounts.”

  He signed.

  In the bullpen, a worried Syd tried to work at her desk but her attention kept drifting to the closed conference room door. Her cell phone rang, she answered. “Hello.”

  “Detective Curtis, this is Chris Reade; my office told me you called.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reade, Kathy Tuttle told us you represented her in a transaction with Colin Wood and his father.”

  “I did.”

  “She told us about the date rape, Mr. Reade, and she said you told her Colin Wood had trouble before, in high school.”

  “My assistant told me this was a murder investigation; could you tell me who was murdered?”

  “Colin Wood.”

  There was long pause, then Reade said, “Now that’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  And when Reade told Syd, she thanked him and rushed to the conference room, knocked on the door and entered. Anne was slipping some papers back into her attaché case. “Sorry to bother you,” Syd said. “But we just got a break.”

  “Great. Anne and I were finishing up.”

  “I’ll call you later with an update,” Anne said to Ryan. “And I’ll probably have more papers to sign. I’m moving into the Beverly Hilton this afternoon, we can meet there tonight to sign the papers and go over everything for tomorrow morning.” She turned to Syd. “Nice to meet you, Detective.” Anne swept out the door.

  A worried Syd asked, “Why is she moving into a hotel?”

  Ryan knew the answer would upset her. “She’s getting a divorce.”

  A silent moment registered between them as the implications settled in. “Should I be worried?” Syd asked.

  I honestly don’t know, Ryan thought. “No,” he said and then got back to business. “Tell me the news.”

  “I just spoke to the lawyer, Chris Reade. There was a rumored date rape incident involving Colin Wood in high school. In fact a few boys might have been involved. Reade knew the lawyer that handled the case, a man named Zachary Stone.”

  “Did you get a number, can we talk to him?”

  “No, and that’s the good part. For us, not him. He’s dead. Shot to death in Newport Beach on Sunday.”

  “The day before Colin Wood’s murder,” Ryan said, excited.

  “We’ve got a conference call scheduled with Newport Beach Homicide in fifteen minutes.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Technically there were no private beaches in Malibu, much to the chagrin of the rich beach house owners. The courts ruled that the public had a right to build sandcastles wherever they wanted. But for all intents and purposes, many of the beaches were rendered private by the lack of public parking. And the closest public parking to Carbon Beach was miles away.

  So Alice had to figure out a way to get close to Blake Hunter. There was plenty of information about Blake online. His company, BHPIX, was one of the largest suppliers of paparazzi photos in the world. There was a profile published in L.A. Magazine that talked about his statutory
rape conviction, which didn’t surprise Alice at all. The fact that when Blake got out of jail and actually dated the victim, who had finally turned eighteen, did. The relationship didn’t last but it certainly made Blake infamous.

  According to all her online research, Blake worked from home and though he often went out, there was no schedule, no rhyme or reason to his comings and goings.

  And Alice knew there was a clock on her now. She checked the news when she got up this morning. There was a story about the lucky homicide detective who won the lottery and is investigating the Colin Wood murder, but there was still no report of a dead body at the Bel Air Regent. The old lady should have come down to the desk fifteen minutes after the Lady in Red had left the hotel looking for a way to retrieve her dog. What happened? Did the old lady die? Not likely. Did they find the body and decide to keep it quiet? No, the cops didn’t work that way. Alice knew there were security cameras all over the hotel and the cops would use them to get video of her. And they would want that video on television as soon as possible hoping someone would see her and turn her in.

  So what? Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Alice accepted the extra time gratefully.

  Now her research did mention that Blake liked to go for a run every morning, a three mile jog up and down the beach. Since she couldn’t park nearby, Alice rented a kayak at Paradise Beach and paddled two miles to a spot about one hundred yards off shore of Blake’s house. Then she waited.

  Blake, meanwhile, had sent the hookers home and was now hard at work. He’d converted one of his bedrooms into an office. It had a full on ocean view. A huge desk sat in the middle of the room dominated by a 27-inch iMac. This is where Blake worked and did his photo editing. A 42-inch flat screen TV hung on the wall across from the desk. Two bookcases flanked the TV filled with a mixture of books and DVD’s. Another wall was filled with photos, shots of celebrities that had helped make BHPIX so successful: Lara snorting coke in a nightclub bathroom; Britney climbing out of a car sans panties and flashing the world; Tara, drunk, throwing up on the sidewalk.