Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  HOLLYWOOD BLOOD

  MZ Kelly

  Note from the author

  This book, like all the Hollywood Alphabet Series Thrillers, contains an interesting Hollywood fact or quote from a famous movie star. As you read, look for the fact or quote, and then look for details about how to win valuable prizes at the end of this book. Contests may be related to information in this book or Hollywood in general. All contests are updated regularly, it’s easy to enter, and the prizes are great.

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  Also in the Hollywood Alphabet Series:

  Hollywood Assassin

  Hollywood Blood

  Hollywood Crazy

  Hollywood Dirty

  Hollywood Enemy

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Thanks

  Contest…Giveaway…Free Stuff….

  Hollywood Crazy Preview

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I was late and dashed into the spirit room, taking my place across from a psychic, a celebrity, and a dog. Thirty seconds later, I knew that the dog was the smartest one in the room.

  “We call upon the spirit guide to come forth, give us a sign,” my mother, also known as Miss Daisy, said, sounding like Bob Marley’s sister. “Lolly Biloxi, we beg you to come into this room.”

  The psychic reading, my mother’s form of a prenuptial counseling session for a celebrity named Karma, should have been called a pre-nut. Every woman in the room wore green. No, it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day. Karma calls green her power color and insists that everyone in her presence wear a shade of the color.

  I cursed the lime green dress I’d bought for the occasion. It was too big for me, bunched up at my hips, and made me feel like something that catches flies with its tongue.

  Mom sat at the head of the table using the fake Jamaican accent she conjures up during her readings. The scent of incense hung in the air. The lights were dim and creepy mood music played in the background. It all seemed fitting, with Halloween just a few days away.

  The psychic reading was to determine if the celebrity singer’s fiancé, a rapper named Love Dawg, was cheating on her.

  Yes, Love Dawg.

  Karma had apparently never been told that men are dominated by an organ that’s sole purpose is to activate their penises. It’s called a brain. Maybe I should give up being a cop and go into the business of predicting the future.

  As the reading began, the dog in the room, my canine police partner, Bernie, displayed the unusual good sense to trot off to a corner and lie down. Bernie, a mixed breed of fur, attitude, and sexual wanderlust, has his own testosterone induced challenges, but was recovering from a gunshot wound and apparently didn’t want any part of ghost-busting his two-legged counterpart.

  Karma’s elderly manager, Harriett Nordquist, made a snortle, something between a snort and a chortle, before she leaned over to my best friend, Natalie Bump, and said, “I think Lolly should stay in Biloxi and Miss Daisy is crazy.”

  “Best to keep an open mind,” Natalie whispered in her proper English accent. “As the story goes, the last time someone made fun of Miss Daisy, she ended up being cursed and struck dumber than a pair of Winklepickers.” Harriett’s blue eyes widened as Natalie continued. “The old girl was last seen trying to clean bird shit out of a cuckoo clock.”

  “STFU,” Karma’s friend, Vee, a plump young woman with lots of makeup, big lips, and even bigger hair, said in a hushed tone from across the table.

  Mo, Natalie’s partner in a private detective business they call Sistah Snoop, sat a couple of chairs over from me and must have seen my confusion.

  “Shut the fuck up, Kate,” Mo said in her deep, yawning voice.

  Mo’s black, bad, and big, as in she’s pushing two hundred pounds. Still, I started to take offense at what she’d said.

  “STFU—shut the fuck up,” Mo explained, stretching her green spandex at the seams until it threatened to unleash two of the largest breasts in the Milky Way.

  “Oh, got it,” I said.

  After another STFU from Vee, Mom adjusted her red and green headscarf and pleaded with Lolly to give us a sign. The lights dimmed and I heard a whimper that I should have paid more attention to.

  Instead, I watched as Miss Daisy’s head began to loll and roll. She lost the Jamaican accent, and, in the persona of her spirit guide, said, “I am Lolly. What do you seek?”

  I zoned out at that point, didn’t hear Bernie’s increasingly urgent whimper, and tuned out the spirit guide’s warning that Love Dawg was off his leash.

  Maybe it was all the talk about dogs and love, but my ex, an assistant DA, crossed my mind. A year ago, he’d been caught on videotape cheating with his secretary in an interview room. The divorce had left me in credit hell and with the humiliation of knowing that the video, Dougie Does Phyllis, had made the rounds of nearly every division in the department.

  After some evil thoughts that ended in an imaginary courtroom where I was found innocent by reason of justifiable castration, I found my mind wandering back to last night. It was my thirty-first birthday, there was a cake, and I’d done a little celebrating.

  Detective Jack Bautista and I had recently solved a high-profile murder case in Hollywood. The case took on some complications involving Jack being a fugitive for a while, before I almost lost my job while helping him clear his name.

  We were both back on the force and, thanks to some intervention by the newly appointed police chief, I’d just been reassigned to RHD, LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division, along with my partner, Charlie Winkler. Bernie had also been rewarded for his actions on the case, receiving a Medal of Valor, after taking a bullet while bringing down the bad guy.

  All that seemed a long time ago when I thought about last night’s birthday celebration. One thing had led to another, and…

  ***

  “Happy birthday,” Jack said, dimming the lights and lighting ano
ther candle.

  I felt something wet…it wasn’t wax. The candles didn’t make it on the cake because the cake never made it as a cake or to the oven, for that matter. It was all clothes and flour, eggs and sugar, pots and pans, lips and hands. I felt the dripping of batter and then a better feeling…much better.

  “Maybe we need some ice cream,” Jack suggested after a while. “I think I could use some more sugar.”

  “It’s bad for your health,” I said.

  “No one lives forever.”

  “Better watch our cholesterol.”

  “I’ll watch yours, if you watch mine.”

  Things got a little more heated then. Maybe it was the air temperature, or the fact that the candles were burning rapidly, or that the ice cream was something called, Cookies and Dreams.

  All I knew after that was that you don’t need an oven to bake a cake.

  ***

  Bernie’s whine, an early warning signal that almost always signifies imminent disaster, ended my reverie, bringing me back to Mom’s spirit room. I heard Lolly telling Karma something about Love Dawg’s happy sword.

  Then the room exploded.

  Chapter Two

  “Stay down,” I yelled, the echo of the gunshot blasting through the room still ringing in my ears.

  The lights in my mother’s psychic parlor were out, the room only illuminated by the light spilling in from an adjacent room. There was a momentary silence as we tried to understand what had happened. Everyone was on the floor; a writhing mass of arms, legs, fur, and Versace.

  Then the screaming and yelling began.

  “Get my driver, now,” Karma shrieked.

  “The floor is wet, sticky,” Vee said, sliding around in the blood spray like a novice skater on a frozen pond. “I can’t get my footing.”

  Mo was under the table, legs and arms in a spandex tourniquet, yelling something about motherfuckers.

  Natalie let loose with a string of British obscenities ending with a reference to the queen’s genitalia. She pulled her husband, Clyde’s, antique pistol out of her purse and waved it in the air.

  I finally found my own purse, yanked out my cell phone, and called it in.

  “This is Detective Kate Sexton with LAPD. We have shots fired. I need tactical units, code three at my location. And send an ambulance.” I gave them Mom’s address and ended the call.

  I wasn’t sure about needing the ambulance until I found the light switch. When the spirit room lit up, I realized that I should have just called for the coroner, and maybe a psychiatrist, considering the personalities in the room.

  Harriett Nordquist had done a face plant onto the multi-colored spirit table. Blood poured out of a hole in her head.

  “Fraid the dew is off the Lily,” Natalie said, examining the dead body slumped over on the table. Nothing much bothers my British friend. “Maybe she shoulda settled for cleaning cuckoo clocks.”

  “Get down, Nat,” I yelled. “And put the gun away.” I turned to my mother, who was also slumped forward across the table, her headscarf covering her face.

  “Mom, are you hurt?” I stayed low as I went over and checked on her. I pulled the scarf up and saw that Miss Daisy had fainted. She was coming to, moaning something about evil spirits and the dead. She appeared to be okay, at least as okay as my mother gets.

  I took a moment to compose myself. The room was in a state of chaos, but no one, other than Karma’s agent, appeared harmed. Vee, who I’d learned before the reading was someone Karma called her FFF, First Friend Forever, was now making a fanning motion in front of Karma’s face, and slipping around in the blood while screaming for someone to get water.

  “STFU,” I yelled at the FFF, thinking about other things the initials could stand for. I then turned to the other women in the room. “Everyone, stay right where you are. Do not get off the floor until I get back.”

  The shot that killed Nordquist had come through the window. The shattered glass covered the floor, mixing with the blood. I gathered up Bernie, tethered him, and crouched low, heading out onto the patio with my gun drawn.

  The night was damp and moonless. The only lights in the neighborhood came from Mom’s cottage and the amber streetlights that lined the road. In the distance, the city of Hollywood drifted in and out of a fog bank, a shimmering mirage of dreams or nightmares, depending upon your perspective.

  I did the calculations, looking from where the bullet had entered the house then back to the neighborhood. The shooter must have been on the street where it turned and headed up the block. Maybe it was just a random act, an errant drive-by.

  When I got to the sidewalk, something else occurred to me. The shooter might have been stalking Karma and had hit her agent by mistake. This was Hollywood and the singer was one of the most famous performers in the world. I cringed at the thought of the press getting ahold of the story. Mom’s neighborhood and the city would become a media and paparazzi feeding frenzy.

  I turned, tugged on Bernie’s leash, and headed up the sidewalk. My big dog growled, the fur on his back lifting. I looked up in time to see something or someone in the shadows hiding behind one of the cars parked at the curb up the street.

  “Police,” I yelled. “Walk toward me now or I release the dog.” I fingered my gun. “Hands in the air.”

  Silence.

  I took a step forward and heard a shuffling sound, someone moving. A car door opened. I reached down to release Bernie, but something in the road caught my eye.

  I glanced up just in time to see the car’s headlights come on and it jerk away from the curb. An engine roared to life as the car accelerated in our direction. I dove and rolled away from the speeding car, pulling Bernie with me as it rumbled past us.

  I raised my Glock, drawing a bead on the fishtailing car. I was about to fire when I decided it was too late. There were some apartment buildings beyond the roadway. One errant shot and I’d be up to my ears in hot water with LADP brass again. There was no way I’d risk another go-around with the boys in the Tower, as my partner, Charlie Winkler, referred to the LAPD administrators.

  I headed back to my mother’s house, hearing the sirens coming up the street, but then stopped. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and searched the road where I’d stood a moment earlier. Then I saw it.

  At first I thought it was some kind of large playing card. But when I lifted it up by the edge, I saw the image. It was one of those fortune-telling cards that I’d seen psychics use. In fact, I thought I’d seen a similar card in my mother’s house and wondered if it belonged to her.

  I turned the card over. I saw an image of a skeleton riding a horse, carrying some kind of flag. Then I saw the handwritten words at the bottom of the card.

  The silence is broken.

  Chapter Three

  Myra’s headlights wash over the crouching figure with the dog as her car swerves through the neighborhood and disappears into the mist. A smile plays on her full, perfect lips. The woman had a gun and there was a badge on the dog’s collar. She must be a cop.

  Perfect.

  Everything’s gone according to plan, but it’s only the beginning. Before the night is over, there will be another death. She will take another step closer to the revenge and life she deserves.

  The streets of West Hollywood recede into the fog as Myra turns off the tiny camera affixed to her lapel and moves through the city. She drives cautiously, making her way past Sunset Boulevard, up Laurel Canyon, and into the Hollywood Hills.

  Her older model Chrysler passes a scattering of homes, including an occasional mini-mansion overlooking the city, until it pulls off the roadway. She parks in an empty lot where the car can’t be seen from the street.

  Myra checks her watch, her anger surfacing. Where are her sisters? She unconsciously touches the inside of her left arm, running her fingers over the lettering. It’s the same tattoo that her sisters have, a ritual of initiation and commitment. The phrase is highlighted by the branding of skin that has been permanently raised
and scarred. The words are written in Latin, Sorores Sanguinis, Sisters of the Blood.

  After a few minutes, Myra finally sees the headlights coming up the road. The car turns off and parks in the lot. Rose is driving the stolen station wagon, just as they’ve planned, but she has no patience for the delay.

  “Why are you late?” Myra demands, after rushing over to the open window. Her black leather pants and jacket, the nose and eyebrow piercings give her a hard, angry look.

  Henna has already exited the vehicle, coming around from the passenger side to explain. “It’s Chloe. She’s been freaking out. I don’t think she can do this.”

  Rose, gets out of the car. Her voice is low as she references their passenger in the backseat. “She’s been crying all afternoon, asking for her mother.”

  Myra glances at the young woman in the backseat of the older model station wagon. The heater in the stolen car is broken and Chloe has found a tattered blanket, wrapping it around herself for warmth. The young woman’s complexion is pale, her eyes downcast.

  Doubts begin to surface. They’ve spent weeks practicing for this night. There can be no mistakes. This time everything is for real. Every move they make will be monitored.

  Myra opens the passenger door, sliding in next to Chloe. She touches the young woman’s arm. Chloe’s gaze comes up to her and she smiles.

  Myra sees the devotion. It’s almost like a child’s love for her mother. At least, that’s what she imagines. She can’t know for sure because she only met her own mother once.

  “I want to be sure you’re okay,” Myra says, sweeping the matted brown hair away from Chloe’s face. “We can’t have anything go wrong tonight.”

  Chloe’s blue eyes brighten as they find her. “I’m ready now. I just…I think my nerves got the best of me when you weren’t here.”

  “I’m counting on you.” Myra leans over, touches the tattoo on the young woman’s arm. She presses her lips to Chloe’s, knowing this is much more than a mother-daughter relationship. The young woman has been carefully chosen, courted, indoctrinated, and has fallen in love with her. It’s all gone according to plan. There is no question about Chloe’s devotion and commitment.