Hollywood Quest_A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  HOLLYWOOD QUEST

  MZ Kelly

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  SPECIAL OFFERS:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

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  More by This Author:

  COMING SOON

  ONE

  “It says here the sister, Amy Bratton, age six, was found in the back yard,” I told my partner Charlie Winkler after looking up from the murder book. “She was disoriented, unable to answer any questions, and had Z-91 tattooed on the inside of her wrist.” I took a sip of my coffee. “The crime was never solved.”

  “And the family?” Charlie said, with a mouthful of breakfast burrito.

  “They were all asleep, except for the victim, Amy’s stepsister, Linda. She was found in her bed, asphyxiated. The coroner thinks her pillow was used to smother her. Her older brother and sister slept through everything.”

  “What did...” He swallowed. “...the parents have to say?”

  “They were extremely distraught. They had no idea anyone was in the house and couldn’t explain what happened to their daughter. Amy eventually recovered enough to talk to the detectives, but had no memory of the night’s events, including how she got the tattoo.” I looked up from the paperwork. “It’s pretty strange.”

  Charlie sniffed, then took a sip of his coffee. He cranked his head toward the rows of filing cabinets behind us. “Welcome to Cold Case. This place is like...” He scratched his thinning dyed hair. “...what’s the name of that movie?” His brown eyes brightened. “Mystery at the Museum. That’s it. It’s like being in a big old museum, and behind every door in an unsolved murder.” He went back to the burrito.

  Let me take a moment and explain how I got locked in what Charlie refers to as a museum full of dead bodies. My name is Kate Sexton. I’m thirty-two, single, and live in Hollywood. I’m an LAPD detective, recently reassigned to the Cold Case Unit. I’d previously been a part of Section One, the department’s elite homicide unit. That unit had been disbanded, and I’d been moved to the Police Administration Building in Los Angeles. My theory was that my reassignment had as much to do with the former chief of police, Reginald Dunbar, trying to keep an eye on me, as it did his dislike of the specialized unit.

  My canine partner, Bernie, was at home, awaiting a decision about his future. Dunbar wasn’t fond of women—at least the ones that talked back—or dogs. He’d planned to reassign Bernie before his recent suspension. More about that later.

  My new partner was my old partner. Charlie and I had worked together for several years before he retired. He’d recently come out of retirement, deciding that he missed police work. Charlie was in his late fifties, about forty pounds overweight, and a sexual addict. He’d been divorced a few years back and spent most of his time surfing Internet porn sites, gambling, and hoping to get laid.

  “I want to go talk to the family,” I said.

  Charlie’s fleshy face tightened. “This is Cold Case. We don’t do that.”

  “We’re detectives. That means we work cases, try and solve them.”

  He shook his head. “We push paper, send evidence to SID, and fill out RFAs.”

  SID was the department’s Scientific Investigation Division, LAPD’s version of a crime scene unit. Much of our work involved sending evidence to SID, trying to get a DNA match. An RFA was the generic name for the federal government’s Request for Assistance grant application that assisted local police departments with funding. The cold case unit survived, thanks to a trickle of funding the feds generously provided to law enforcement agencies.

  It was my turn to shake my head. “I’m not pushing paper or letting a bunch of nerds with test tubes solve our cases.” I picked up a wad of paperwork from the murder file. “I left a message with Lee Bratton that we’re coming by today.”

  “Whoosdatt?” Charlie’s question was garbled, thanks to a mouthful of egg and cheese.

  “The victim’s father. The family lives near Coldwater Canyon.”

  He gave me a harrumph, at least I think it was a harrumph. I couldn’t be sure because he’d crammed the last of the burrito into his mouth.

  I went over and got my coat, glancing across the rows of cubicles. The Cold Case Unit consisted of six teams of detectives, most of them either ROTJ, Retired on the Job, or soon to be retired. Our lieutenant was Sam Kemp, probably chosen for the assignment because he met the previously mentioned criteria. I contemplated telling him about our field work, then thought better of it. Kemp would probably stand around, wringing his hands, before eventually telling us to go back to our desks. I’d seen dead slugs with more energy.

  “You coming?” I said to Charlie.

  He rose. “Okay, but I need to stop and get something to eat.”

  I’m five nine, a couple inches taller than Charlie. I looked down at him. “You just had a burrito.”

  “That was an appetizer. They got a Norms not too far from here.”

  Norms was a breakfast chain that Charlie loved. I knew I was in for an hour’s wait while my partner devoured their Bigger Better Breakfast special.

  I surrendered to my fate. “Alright. Let’s get out of here before Kemp comes by and gives us an RFA to fill out.”

  ***

  After bre
akfast, we hit the freeway. Charlie, as usual, found something to complain about as he drove. “The only reason I came back to work was I thought I’d be working with Claudia.”

  He was referring to Claudia Johnson, who had been reassigned to make room for my transfer. “I heard she went to Harbor Division.”

  He cut his dark, bloodshot eyes in my direction. “Maybe I should give her a call, see if she wants to go out.”

  I had my compact out and tried to do something with my lipstick and eyeliner. While I have decent features and green eyes, I felt like I was in a perpetual state of disarray.

  “Do you even know Claudia?” I asked, looking over at him.

  “Only by reputation.” He smiled. Charlie never smiles unless he’s thinking about sex. It was creepy. “She’s what you would call easy.”

  I refused to play along. “I’m sure she tries to get along with everyone.”

  “Especially guys. And I’ve got some new equipment to try out.”

  His weird smile was still there. I didn’t know exactly what he meant by “new equipment”, and didn’t want to know. He’d recently shared some unwanted information with me about having erection problems and seeing a specialist, someone who, he’d said, “fixed him right up,” whatever that meant.

  “Maybe you should take a break,” I said, giving up on my makeup session. “Sometimes not being in a relationship is a good thing.”

  He scowled. “I’m not meant to be alone.” He paused, regarding me. “How’s that working for you?”

  Charlie knew I was divorced and had been in a series of failed relationships. I’d recently met a sheriff’s detective named Ross Adams, who I knew was interested in me, but I was ambivalent about getting involved. I was also close to Joe Dawson, an FBI agent who I’d worked with in the past. Joe had recently made overtures about us becoming more than just friends, but I was uncertain about him as well.

  “Being single is actually working fine,” I said. “I have enough on my plate, without getting involved with someone right now.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  When he didn’t go on, I said, “But what?”

  He glanced at me, then looked away. “Sex. It’s gotta be hard.”

  I laughed. “Maybe that’s a better choice of words for your problem.”

  He turned red. “You know what I mean.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes, there are more important things than sex.”

  He shook his head and blew out a breath. “Yeah? Name one.”

  I didn’t respond. We drove on in silence for a few minutes before Charlie said, “What’s the latest with finding your dad?”

  It was my turn to release a long breath. Charlie was referring to my biological father. My family circumstances are what you might call complicated. For now, all you need to know is that my bio-dad, whose identity is unknown, gave me to my adoptive parents to raise for reasons that I still didn’t entirely understand.

  When I was a little girl, my adoptive father had subsequently been murdered by a man named Ryan Cooper who had later married Judie Crawford, my bio-mom. In the past few months, I’d learned that Cooper was a hit man, working for Harlan Ryland and Colin Russell, who founded a religious cult known as the Tauists. Thirty years ago, my adoptive father had done some part-time security work for Wallace Studios and had learned that Ryland and Russell were embezzling money to fund their fledgling enterprise. It’s my belief that my father, and a Hollywood starlet named Jean Winslow, were both murdered to cover up what they’d learned about the theft.

  To make matters more complicated, my adoptive mother had never told me that I’d been adopted, something that had severely strained our relationship. I’d recently learned some details about a former detective named Pearl Kramer that made me think he might be my bio-dad, but he had gone missing. I’ll sort out some more details for you later.

  “Leo says he talked to Pearl’s sister,” I told Charlie, referencing Leo Kingsley, my former partner. “She’s apparently heard from him and hopes to be able to put us in touch.”

  “You really think he’s your dad?”

  I glanced at him. “I don’t know. All I do know is that if he is my father, I don’t understand why he never stepped up, told me the truth, and became a part of my life.”

  “It doesn’t fit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know Pearl. He’s as rock solid as they come. If he was your dad, he wouldn’t keep it a secret.”

  I thought about what he’d said for a minute. Pearl was one of the best detectives I’d ever known. I had to agree with Charlie. If he was my father, his silence didn’t add up. “I guess it’s just another one of life’s mysteries that’s waiting to be solved.”

  While I’d tried to make light of the situation, I was committed to finding the truth, both about my adoptive father’s murder and the identity of my bio-dad. My dad’s murder had deeply impacted me in ways that I was still trying to understand. I was beginning to realize that the loss of a father, especially when that loss is one of your earliest memories, is something that stays with you for a lifetime.

  “The Bratton house should be the next block over,” Charlie said, causing my thoughts to surface. “You said you talked to the father?”

  “I just got his voice mail and left a message. Not sure about his wife.”

  “How old are the surviving kids now?”

  “It’s a blended family. Lee and Laura married ten years ago and had Amy, who should be about nine now. The step kids are Jared...” I paused, doing the math in my head since the murder of Linda. “He would be about thirteen now. The sister, I think her name is Carrie, would be eleven.”

  Charlie sighed. “Hell of a situation.” He took a moment, then asked, “Who originally caught the case?”

  “Danvers and Reno.”

  “Shit.” Charlie ran a hand through his dyed hair. “Those two couldn’t solve a murder in an outhouse if they were locked inside with the killer.”

  He pulled up to the curb as I said, “I’ve heard they sometimes miss things. Maybe we’ll find an angle that was overlooked.”

  He turned off the ignition and shook his head at me. “You always were a damned optimist.”

  The house where the Brattons lived was in Beverly Crest, an upscale neighborhood that bordered Franklin Canyon Park. Their home was a white single story, with black shutters. It recalled an era when land values were cheaper and sprawling homes were built on large lots. Despite the pricey neighborhood, the lawn was a patch of weeds and dead shrubbery, something not too uncommon since we were in the middle of a drought.

  Charlie stood to the side of the porch as I tried the bell a couple times. There was no response. I called out, announcing us, but heard nothing from inside the house.

  “No answer,” I said, coming off the porch and brushing a hand through my dark hair, which was perpetually messy.

  “Looks like we came a long way for nothing.”

  “Let’s walk up the driveway, take a look.”

  He shrugged and followed me up the long driveway. I felt out of place and a little vulnerable without Bernie at my side. I hoped someone would make a decision soon about returning my canine partner to duty, since Chief Dunbar was now on suspension.

  Charlie surprised me by coming up behind me and touching my shoulder. “The door’s open,” he said, indicating the side door near the garage.

  I looked over, now seeing what he had. “Let’s take a look.”

  I put my hand on my weapon as I stood on the landing and pulled the open door wider. “Police,” I said. “Is anybody home?”

  Nothing. I made the announcement again, without getting a response. I looked back at Charlie. “Let’s clear the house and lock up if nobody’s home.”

  He followed me inside what we realized was a service porch that was adjacent to a large kitchen. I again called out, getting nothing back.

  We were in a hallway that I assumed led to the bedrooms and was adjacent to the living room when I ha
ppened to glance over at the nearby dining room.

  “What the hell?” I said, instinctively drawing my weapon.

  Charlie was at my side, his gun also at the ready. “It...it looks like...somebody butchered and posed them at the dinner table.”

  I glanced at him, then took a step closer to the grisly scene. I took in a breath and tried to steady myself. I had no way of knowing for sure if the man and the children at the dinner table were Lee Bratton and two of his children, but it seemed likely. The family was propped up in chairs, the table set like they were waiting for dinner to be served. What made the scene even more bizarre was the fact that they were all wearing masks, each with the designation Z-91 written on the

  TWO

  “Where’s the mother and the other kid?” Charlie asked me, after we’d made a cursory inspection and determined that the man was likely Lee Bratton, and the children were probably Jared and Carrie, the two oldest children. “What’d you say the girl’s name was?”

  I met his eyes again. “Amy.”

  My gaze moved over, taking in the living room, which was empty. I then looked back at the strange scene of the dead family sitting at the table. The white masks they were wearing looked like something that a mime might wear. They had cutouts for the eyes and mouth, with a single red tear, probably fashioned from a marker or paint, dripping from one of the eye holes.

  “Z-91,” I said aloud, realizing that it matched what had been tattooed on Amy’s wrist after the first murder. I’d been to a lot of strange murder scenes, but this was near the top. I looked back at Charlie. “Let’s clear the rest of the house.”

  Ten minutes later, we’d checked the bedrooms, bathrooms, and a small home office, not finding any sign of the mother or Amy. I then remembered the reports from the prior crime said that said the child had been found in the back yard when her stepsister had been murdered.

  “You call it in,” I said. “I’m going to check the yard.”

  The back yard was larger than you found with most houses. It was overgrown with crabgrass, dead shrubbery, and a few fruit trees. I heard a rustling sound as I moved around the detached garage. That’s where I found a girl sitting beneath a peach tree. I recognized her as Amy Bratton from the photos I’d seen in the murder book on her stepsister.