Hollywood Forbidden: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

  HOLLYWOOD FORBIDDEN

  MZ Kelly

  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

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Thanks for reading

  Contest…Giveaways…Free Stuff

  More by this Author

  Hollywood Games

  Note from the author

  This book, like all the Hollywood Alphabet Series novels, 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.

  Click Here to become a member of my Street Team and receive my newsletter with information about upcoming book releases, contests, and special offers.

  Also in the Hollywood Alphabet Series:

  Hollywood Assassin

  Hollywood Blood

  Hollywood Crazy

  Hollywood Dirty

  Hollywood Enemy

  CHAPTER ONE

  “She’s fainting,” Mo yelled, turning in my direction. “Somebody grab her.”

  Since I was a somebody and also a cop that had the unfortunate habit of putting myself in harm’s way, I ran toward the large, falling woman. The instant before, impact I had the impression that a tubby version of the Sesame Street character Big Bird was flapping her wings and doing a backward swan dive off the Catalina Island courthouse steps.

  Mo’s sister Roma, who wore a yellow dress with feathers around the collar, landed in my arms. I suddenly knew firsthand what it means to be given the bird. As we both went down I heard the sound of fabric ripping and a horrified gasp from the crowd of onlookers, probably thinking I was road kill.

  “You okay, Kate?” It was the sound of my best friend Natalie’s voice.

  I had the impression that Natalie was tugging on one of the bird’s hammy wings, trying to move the unmovable. I couldn’t see her because I was staring into Roma’s beefy back, thinking my lungs would probably never hold air again.

  An image of a popped inner tube from my youth came to mind as I said, “Urrggh,” something that can probably be found in the road kill dictionary under words that begin with the letters f and u.

  “Lend me a hand,” I heard Natalie saying to the crowd of spectators. “We might need an ambulance.”

  Or a crane. Or maybe even a body bag.

  I came up from my feathered lard tomb thanks to the combined efforts of several large men, including a guy with a badge on his belt. Despite my nearly fatal encounter, the handsome man made me realize that I wasn’t paralyzed and still had some sensation, even if it was only in my unmentionable area.

  “Somebody get some water,” Mo said, tending to her sister who was now moaning and sitting up on the courthouse steps. She must have thought I was just collateral damage. Maybe I should have cried fowl.

  “Good thing you wore clean underwear,” Natalie said, bending down to me.

  I groaned and rubbed the lump on the back of my head where I’d hit the concrete steps. I looked up at her in confusion.

  “You’re skirt is ripped, all the way up to your magic muffin,” she explained in her colorful British accent.

  I looked down, now realizing that my black skirt was hiked up, shredded, and I was modeling a lacy red thong for the residents of Catalina. I quickly pulled myself back together, at the same time looking back up at the cop. He had one of those smiles that reminded me of the time Jessica Barlow, my high school nemesis, took a picture of me in the girl’s locker room wearing nothing but a smile. She had shown the photo to half the boys in gym class before it was confiscated.

  “Sorry,” I said, at the same time wondering why I was apologizing for a show that would probably cost the cop a ten dollar tip at the local titty bar.

  “Believe me, you don’t need to apologize,” the cop drawled with the hint of a southern accent, still smiling at me. He then found my eyes and tucked away the smile. His even features and baby blues were now full of concern. “Are you going to need medical help?”

  “I think I’m okay,” I said, letting him and Natalie pull me up to a standing position. It was a lie. My head throbbed and I was dizzy. I brushed a hand through my damp hair and said to Natalie, “I’m going to need to go home, clean up, and change my clothes.” I looked down again and saw that my gun had fallen out of my purse during the Big Bird rescue mission. I picked it up, looked back at the cop, and explained, “I’m with LAPD, off duty.”

  He kept his eyes on my gun, placed his hand on the gun in his holster, a typical cop thing. I showed him my badge, pushed my gun back into my purse, and saw the tension in his handsome face ease.

  Mo came over to us, her face twisting up in a way that reminded me of the time I’d climbed out of my bedroom window at midnight when I was a teenager, slid down a drainpipe, and found my mother standing there. “You can’t leave us, Kate. Roma needs your support in the courtroom. She’s half-crazy with worry. I’m afraid she’s gonna have a stroke before the day’s over.”

  I made a mental note to run in the other direction and yell timber if there was any sign of her sister having a stroke. Roma was still on the ground, moaning.

  I looked back at Mo and Natalie, who are not only my friends, but also my roommates on the mainland. Mo’s big, African-American, and has the take charge attitude of an ex-pimp. Natalie’s just the opposite; blonde and gorgeous, in her early twenties, with a sometimes naughty attitude thanks to a rough childhood upbringing in England.

  A few months back, the duo had opened a private investigation firm called, Sistah Snoop. While my friends were heavy on the snoop, they were also like sisters to one another and to me, even though they sometimes lacked a certain amount of tact and finesse in both their comments and tactics. Despite their shortcomings, I’d grown to love them and knew I’d do almost anything for them.

 
“I got me a couple of safety pins,” Natalie said to me, at the same time opening her purse. “I can fix up your skirt. You’ll be almost as good as new.”

  Yeah, good as new for a woman who’d been flattened by a big yellow bird, exposed her unmentionables to half the world, and had hair and makeup that were probably beyond redemption.

  I nodded at Natalie, blowing out a breath through my nostrils. “Okay. Do what you can.”

  I took a moment to drag a brush through my sometimes unruly hair and check my makeup. Except for the ripped outfit I decided that I was half-way presentable, thanks to even features and dark skin; a gift from my birthmother’s side of the DNA tree.

  As Natalie worked on the skirt, the cop spent a moment admiring Bernie. He then held out a hand to me. “I’m Buck McCade with the local sheriff’s department.”

  I took his hand and introduced myself and my friends. I noticed that his suit had a western cut, like something you might see in Texas rather than on an island. It matched his southern drawl.

  The suit and accent weren’t all that I noticed. At five nine, I’m tall, but Buck McCade was a good six inches taller than me. He was also fit, with even features and sandy brown hair. There was something about the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, the pucker of his full lips, his prominent chin, and…

  I suddenly felt something wet. It’s not what you’re thinking. My dog Bernie pushed his big nose into my hand, his way of showing sympathy for what lately seemed to be one disaster in my life after another. I took a moment and returned his affection.

  I should probably explain. My name is Kate Sexton. I’m a cop with LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division, or RHD, but I’d been on a leave from the department for almost three months. Bernie, my canine partner on the police force, and I, were staying with my friends, Natalie and Mo, and Mo’s sister Roma on Catalina Island, about thirty miles off the coast from Hollywood as the crow flies.

  We were at the courthouse because Mo’s daughter Sissy had just been charged with being an accessory to homicide. I didn’t know all the details yet, just that Sissy and another girl had helped cover up the homicide of a young man named Derek Shaw. The homicide victim was shot by their best friend, Maddie, who claimed that Shaw had tried to rape her.

  I’d spent the last few months on the island recovering from the death of my boyfriend, Jack Bautista. Jack had been killed by Ryan Cooper, the same man who murdered my father when I was a little girl. Cooper, in turn, had been shot and killed by my half-sister Lindsay, saving my life. The story’s complicated, so I’ll sort out more of the details for you later.

  Bernie and I had welcomed the time we’d spent recuperating. My hairy companion, part German shepherd and part missing link, is the first canine ever assigned to RHD. We’d been together for the past four years and my big dog had been a life-saver on a couple of recent cases. Bernie also has a randy side to his nature. Bubba, the pup he’d recently sired was back at Stardust Acres, where we’d been staying, probably having his run of the place.

  “The proceedings are gonna start any minute,” Buck McCade said as he pushed a hand through Bernie’s fur again. Natalie had finished repairing my skirt but hadn’t done much for my dignity. “Y’all probably wanna move along, get inside soon,” the big cop added.

  We thanked him and moved up the courthouse steps again, Mo holding onto her sister as Roma huffed her way inside the building. I showed my LAPD credentials at the entrance and was questioned by the security screeners. The guards balked for a moment about letting Bernie into the building, but relented when I explained that he was my canine partner and pointed out the badge on his collar.

  As we walked down the corridor toward the courtroom, I saw the island’s harbor shimmering in the distance through one of the windows. Catalina Island was a tourist getaway for Southern California locals. It had once been the home to William Wrigley, the chewing gum magnate, who built the island’s most notable feature, a round casino structure constructed almost a hundred years earlier that served as the focal point for tourists arriving by boat at Avalon Harbor.

  I’d heard rumors that over the years some of Hollywood’s elite had vacationed on Catalina. The most notable event in recent history involved the actress Natalie Wood losing her life in a boating accident off the island’s coast with her then actor-husband, Robert Wagner.

  The courthouse was less spectacular than the island’s tourist attractions. The building was a white Spanish stucco affair with a red tiled roof. We were on the second floor of what appeared to have once been a large two story residence, the living space now converted to offices with both the upper and lower floors serving as courtrooms.

  The August morning was warm. As we took seats in the courtroom I noticed there was a stale odor in the crowded space, displacing the island’s salty air. It was probably the result of too many bodies in a confined area. I hate two things in life: lawyers and courthouses. They both bring to mind the inequalities of a legal system that I’d too often found lacking.

  I turned and saw that the press was already on the case like a stick of Mr. Wrigley’s chewing gum. Homicide on the small island was, no doubt, a rare occurrence, and the sensational nature of the murder and the three young girls charged with the crime had already hit the headlines in all the mainland newspapers. I noticed that the reporters had packed the two front rows directly behind the defense table. I guess you’d better make that three things in life that I hate.

  As Bernie settled at my feet, I took a seat along with my friends and Mo’s sister Roma in front of the reporters and other spectators that were crammed into the courtroom. I saw that Buck McCade was sitting in the audience directly behind the district attorney. My head was finally clearing after the Big Bird takedown and it now occurred to me that McCade might have a professional interest in the proceedings.

  Mo’s niece, Sissy, and the other girls involved, were all brought in together. They took seats in a makeshift holding area near the defense table.

  “God help my baby girl,” Roma said, fanning herself with a paper she’d pulled out of her purse. I imagined that seeing her only daughter, Sissy, in an orange jumpsuit had pushed Mo’s sister to the edge of hysterics again.

  Sissy was sixteen with long ebony hair and wide innocent dark eyes. I knew from talking to her a few times that she was still very much a little girl—a girl now suddenly thrown into the grownup world of murder and courtrooms. Mo did her best to keep Roma under control, who began sobbing and asking for divine intervention again.

  Maddie Cross, the girl charged with the homicide of Derek Shaw, was probably a little older than Sissy. Her lips were full and pouty. I saw there were tears in her eyes when she turned to the man and woman sitting a couple of rows up and to the side of us. The couple, probably her parents, made little hand gestures of support and huffing sounds, trying to control their emotions.

  The other girl charged as an accessory to the murder, along with Sissy, was Clara Mills. Clara was tall and lean and I thought maybe a little on the homely side. I couldn’t be sure because she was slumped over with her dark hair partially covering her face, apparently in despair over her circumstances.

  The bailiff told us to all rise as the judge, Maxine Cooke, took the bench. Cooke was about fifty, African-American, and reminded me of one of those TV judges who didn’t take any guff. She took a moment, her dark eyes surveying the spectators in the crowded courtroom, before beginning the proceedings.

  Cooke began with a legal announcement, telling us that the Superior Court was in session as a juvenile court, and that the matter under consideration was something called a detention hearing for the three girls. She also made reference to petitions being filed alleging the charges against the under-age defendants.

  The judge then looked around the courtroom again. She put a hand on her forehead, sighed, and in a deep voice groaned, “Where might I ask is Mr. Roth?”

  “I received a text that he’s on his way,” Eleanor Crawford, the public defender for Clara M
ills said. “Of course, we all know what that means.”

  “My time is quite valuable,” Maddie’s attorney said, rising and addressing the court.

  The impeccably dressed lawyer looked like he was in his mid-fifties. He had an assistant with him at the defense table who was probably a little older with thinning gray hair.

  Mo whispered that Clay Aster was a high-priced attorney hired by Maddie’s wealthy parents, as the lawyer continued with his complaint before adding, “I have other matters on the docket this morning.”

  Judge Cooke’s eyes bore into the attorney’s like a couple of lasers. “My time is also valuable, Mr. Aster. Maybe you haven’t guessed but I’m not getting any younger sitting up here. So let’s calm down and give…”

  We all turned as the courtroom doors were flung open and a man rushed down the aisle. He was talking on his cell phone at the same time he worked at knotting his tie. His hair was a mess and his suit was wrinkled, giving the appearance that he’d just rolled out of bed, jumped into his clothes, and rushed to the courthouse.

  The man gave Maxine Cooke a little wave of apparent recognition and said into his phone, “Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be good for it.”

  There was a pause before a woman’s voice that was just short of a scream could be heard over his cell phone throughout the courtroom. “I’m going to cut if off and feed it to the neighbor’s pit bull.”

  The line then went dead as the disheveled man said to Judge Cooke, “My apologizes, your honor. My mother was just inviting me over for dinner tonight.”

  The judge folded her arms and stared down at the attorney. “Mr. Roth, it sounds to me like your mother didn’t get paid last night.”

  “You don’t understand…”

  “I understand perfectly, counsellor. You got an angry hooker after you who also happens to be an animal lover, looking to give the neighbor’s dog a little treat, and I do mean little.”

  Roth, who Mo told me was Sissy’s attorney, held his arms out in what was meant to be a disarming gesture. He momentarily turned to the spectators as the courtroom erupted in laughter. The attorney was handsome in a unkempt way, with tousled brown hair and red-rimmed hazel eyes. He turned back to the judge, smiled, and said, “That was a low blow, your honor.”