East of Sunset - Book One Read online

  EAST OF SUNSET

  Book One

  THE FOREVER HOLLYWOOD

  MYSTERY SERIES

  MZ KELLY

  SPECIAL OFFERS:

  CONTESTS : All books in my Hollywood Alphabet Series and Forever Hollywood Series contain an interesting fact about Hollywood or a quote from a famous movie star. Those facts or quotes may be linked to one of my Hollywood Trivia Contests. There are new contests running every month, it’s easy to enter, and the prizes are great! Click Here to go to the contests page on my website to enter my current contest.

  STREET TEAM : Click Here to become a member of my Street Team and receive my newsletter with even more contests and information about new books.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  SPECIAL OFFERS:

  CONTESTS

  STREET TEAM

  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

  ONE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  The books in the Forever Hollywood series are linked as a continuing series of fast-paced stories about the LAPD’s Serial and Violent Crimes (SVC) Unit. The book series is modeled after the Joint Terrorism Task Force found in other police departments that include specialized units, FBI special agents, and partnerships with other law enforcement agencies. This arrangement provides local police departments access to national level classified data and the ability to analyze and share intelligence.

  ***

  “You hear that?” Jo asked, tilting her head and brushing back her ebony hair.

  Something about my wife’s profile and bearing always reminded me of someone with royal blood who I’d seen in one of those art books from college. Columbia, psych degree, a lifetime ago. Her flawless dark skin and full lips could have landed Jo a career in modelling or maybe the movies. Instead, she’d chosen to become a professor of English literature at SUNY College in Rockland and marry a cop. I got lucky. She moved to Hollywood with me and teaches at UCLA. I’m now the teacher’s pet.

  “I think someone’s singing…” Jo smiled. “…Christmas carols.”

  “We’re still a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving,” I said. “I guess it is about that time of the year.”

  Her smile beamed wider. “I think it’s kids, Jack. It sounds like a Christmas choir.”

  We stopped talking for a moment, listening to the harmony of beautiful young voices drifting up from somewhere down the street. The other diners sitting nearby on Avanti’s outdoor terrace seemed oblivious. It was winter in SoCal, and the weather gods had favored us. The restaurant, just east of Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, had outdoor propane heaters, making the evening comfortable and warm.

  “I got you something,” I said, after the voices died down.

  It was our anniversary. We’d just finished dinner, and I set the small box on the table in front of her, smiling like a teenage kid with his first girlfriend.

  Jo picked up the little giftwrapped parcel. “What is it?”

  “You won’t know unless you open it.”

  She grinned, working on the package. I’d seen childhood pictures of my wife at Christmas. This was a rerun, only better; a beautiful woman-child full of wonder and happiness. In a moment she was holding up the shiny silver bracelet that had set me back half a week’s pay. Not a lot to some people, but, since I’m a detective with LAPD, like they say, it’s the thought that counts. I take that back. This is more than just a thought. It’s a gift for the woman I adore.

  “It’s beautiful.” She opened the clasp and slipped it on her wrist, reminding me of one of those models on TV, only better.

  “It’s a bracelet that you add a charm to, with the name of each of your children when they’re born,” I explained.

  Jo smiled. “I guess Elroy will be the first of several little charms.”

  “Elroy or Henrietta.”

  It was our running joke. Jo was seven months pregnant with our first child. We still hadn’t picked out a name or found out about the sex. We loved the suspense of not knowing and picking out names that would scar any child for life. We’d also conjured up a Zebulon and a Greta. Make those deep scars.

  “I also have something for you.” She handed over an envelope. “I think you’ll like this.”

  I took it from her. “Don’t tell me, you’re giving me my pink slip?”

  Another one of her winning smiles. “Three years together and counting. You never know.”

  I opened the envelope and pulled out an official looking piece of paper. I saw that it had her obstetrician’s name on the letterhead.

  As I glanced at it, Jo said, “I had that ultrasound last Tuesday. It was scheduled for the day you were tied up with that case.”

  I scanned the test results, a smile lighting up my face. “A girl? Really?”

  “Really. I hope you’re okay with knowing. I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.”

  “I’m going to be a girl-dad! Nothing could be better.” I laughed and then bent over and kissed her. “I guess it really is going to be Henrietta.”

  “Not in this lifetime.” The waiter brought over the tea she’d ordered. When he was gone, she said, “I was thinking…” Her beautiful chocolate eyes softened and held on me. “…what would you think about naming her Connie?”

  Despite priding myself on being a tough guy, my eyes grew heavy. I blinked a couple of times and did that things guys do to keep the dam from breaking. I took a deep breath and tried to steady my voice. “A tribute to my grandfather.”

  Jo reached over and took my hand. “It seems fitting.”

  Conrad Jeremiah Powell was thirty-two, about five years younger than me, when he was killed in Vietnam. I had some photographs of him at home. When Jo first saw one of his photos, she’d said we looked like brothers. We were both about six feet, one-eighty, each with a gap-toothed smile that was a family trait.

  In the early 1970s, my grandfather had served aboard the USS Enterprise. He was one of the few African-American pilots flying with the 13th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Connie, as I’m told his friends sometimes called him, flew an F-4 Phantom. His mission was to provide air support for the war. He’d been shot down and killed during one of those mi
ssions. About seven years ago I’d gone to the field south of Hanoi where he’d died. I walked through the field for days, eventually finding a scrap of metal there that I’d kept, wanting to believe it was a small piece of his plane.

  “Connie it is,” I told Jo, pushing down my emotions again and smiling. “Maybe her middle name could be Henrietta.”

  “I doubt that’s…”

  Jo’s words were cut off by the sound of a thunderous explosion coming from somewhere up the street. It rocked our table and the windows in the restaurant. A couple sitting nearby stood and began heading inside. Jo and I remained seated, waiting until the noise ended. It was replaced by another sound.

  Screaming.

  TWO

  “Stay here,” I told Jo. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “But, Jack…”

  The rest of what she’d said was lost, because I was already focused on what was happening up the street. There was smoke and flames coming from one of the buildings about a block away. When I got into the street, I saw several panicked people running in my direction.

  “What’s happening?” I asked a man coming towards me, away from the explosion.

  He didn’t bother answering, but I saw the look on his face. I’d seen that same shocked, panicked expression before on people who were running from the Twin Towers. I was living with my mom in Brooklyn at the time, before later moving west and joining LAPD. I drew my weapon after he’d passed, preparing myself for the worst.

  The Avanti restaurant was located on a street that was undergoing renewal. The area had a special bond for Jo and me because we’d both grown up in similar neighborhoods in New York. It was a working-class area with shops and eateries interspersed with older businesses, some that were shuttered.

  I heard a siren coming up the street behind me as I got closer to the scene of the explosion. I put my gun away and rested my hand on my holster. A police unit pulled to the curb, a couple of uniformed cops piling out.

  “You need to clear the area,” one of the uniforms barked.

  I didn’t recognize the officer and found the badge in my pocket. “Detective, Hollywood Station. Any idea what’s happening here?”

  The other officer, who I recognized as Charlie Riggs, answered. “Just a report of an explosion, some kids injured.”

  My heart sank as I followed them through the blown-out front doors into the building. The kids Jo and I had heard singing a few minutes earlier might be in the building.

  We found a man on the ground, not too far from the entrance. He was bleeding from a head wound.

  “What happened here?” I asked, bending down to him.

  He was moaning, obviously in shock. “Don’t know…explosion…kids…”

  Riggs was making a radio call for a RA unit, but I knew the ambulances were likely already rolling. His partner had left us, but we both heard him calling out from somewhere deeper in the building, through the smoke and ash. “Back here! Several down!”

  We followed the sound of his voice through the darkened building to a place where my worst fears came true. There were at least a dozen kids, maybe high school students, on the ground, most of them dead, their bodies broken and twisted. They were in choir robes. It confirmed my worst fears. Their practice had been permanently ended. The scene was heart-wrenching.

  I went over to one of the girls. There was blood on her head, and she was moaning in agony. I pulled off my coat and tried to stem the bleeding. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, a few years older than me when my father had abandoned my mom.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I said. “Help is on the way.”

  Her voice was surprisingly steady, but soft. “My nana…tell her…I…I love her.”

  “What’s your name, hon?”

  “Grace.” Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  I bent closer, kissing her on the forehead. I whispered, “I’ll tell your grandma, Grace. I promise.”

  After a moment, a woman came over to us. “I’m an off-duty nurse. I can help.”

  I glanced at her as she bent down to the girl. Her eyes were pale blue and glassy, like it was taking every effort to keep her emotions under control.

  She reached over and touched my arm. “Please.”

  I released a breath and looked back at the wounded child. “Thank you.”

  As I stood, I saw that a couple of more uniformed officers had arrived. They walked around, surveying the horrific scene. They seemed dazed, unable to process what was happening. Then I saw an ambulance attendant coming in our direction from the front of the building.

  “Barely made it,” the attendant said. His eyes were wide as he looked around at the carnage.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  He regained some focus and regarded me. “The street’s like a war zone. It’s been closed down. Somebody’s out there shooting.”

  THREE

  I made my way out of the smoldering building and looked back down the street. I didn’t see anyone shooting. Other than a patrol car parked near Avanti’s, the area didn’t look any different than when I’d left Jo.

  As I ran back toward the restaurant, I heard my phone ring. I answered it without looking at the screen, thinking it was Jo.

  “On my way. You okay?”

  The man’s voice on the line was familiar, setting every nerve in my body ablaze like a flare touching gasoline. “I’m fine, Jack. Thanks for asking.”

  The voice belonged to Edgar Newton Halsey, a killer known by the moniker “the Iceman”. Until this moment, I thought he was dead from a fall he’d taken into the ocean during my foot pursuit of him a couple of months earlier. He’d been wanted for three murders at the time, but we knew there were likely others.

  I ran faster. “What the hell do you want?”

  There was low, derisive laughter on the line, before the calm, patrician voice came back. “You don’t need to concern yourself. I already have everything I need.”

  I was nearing Avanti’s now, seeing Jo as she waved to me. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I can’t talk now.”

  I heard the disappointment in my caller’s voice. “Too bad. But I understand. You’re a bit preoccupied with saying goodbye.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said, bounding up the stairway to the restaurant.

  “I’m talking about Jo. Better hurry, Jack. Time’s running out. She’s about to leave. Oh, and, by the way, the next time you have the chance to kill me, I suggest you take advantage of it.”

  I put the phone in my pocket, and my heart felt like it would explode in my chest. I’d just turned the corner onto Avanti’s terrace when I heard the gunshot. The blast seemed to hang in the air for an eternity as I hit the ground and then crawled over to Jo.

  My wife was not only beautiful, she was smart. When she understood what was happening, she’d taken cover beneath the table, trying to protect both herself and our unborn daughter.

  “It’s alright, Jo. I’m here,” I said, scooping her up into my arms and covering her with my body. Even as I tried to protect her, my eyes focused on the building across the street, where I thought the shot had originated. I took an instant to glance back in Jo’s direction. That’s when I saw the blood. It covered the front of the yellow maternity dress she’d worn because she knew it was one of my favorites.

  “Sweetheart?” I held her close, listening for a breath.

  Maybe it was some primitive coping mechanism or denial about what was happening, but my mind tumbled back in time to a spring afternoon when I’d been a junior in a college English class. I’d been daydreaming—or, the truth be told, fantasizing—about the gorgeous young woman sitting three rows up from me. It was only two weeks later when I’d gotten up the nerve to ask her out, that I’d learned her name was Josephine.

  Our first date had been a picnic to the seashore on Fire Island. As we’d strolled along the beach, Jo mentioned the professor’s words on that day I’d asked her out. “Professor Jamison said s
omething that I’ll always remember.”

  I have to admit that I was clueless about what she was talking about but tried to play along. “Yes, it was remarkable.”

  She’d laughed and swatted my shoulder. “You don’t have any idea what I mean, do you?”

  I’d laughed but wasn’t ready to surrender. “Okay, let me hear your take on what he said, then we’ll compare notes.”

  A smile, like sunlight on water, had lit up her face as she’d looked at me. “He said our lives are like a play, where each day the actors move between the light and darkness. Each of us lives between renewal that is the gift each day brings and surrender where the light that has been given recedes back into the shadows. He said that cycle frames every day, just as it frames our entire lives. It gives us both the wonder and frailty of life.”

  I’d felt guilty about my earlier pretense and found myself saying, “That’s really beautiful.”

  Jo had taken my arm and we’d walked farther along the beach. We then stopped. Just before we shared our first kiss, she said, “And just imagine, Jack. All that wonder and frailty is framed by something far greater than our individual lives. It’s the eternal beauty that presides over our journey between the light and the darkness.”

  My mind surfaced from that long-ago day when I’d fallen in love. I clung to my wife, my head now accepting what my shattered heart had denied. The shadows of night had extinguished the light that held the frailty of life. A monster had swept the woman I loved and our unborn daughter into the darkness.

  Jo was gone.

  FOUR

  “Hey baby, it’s me. Just calling to see how your day’s going. Call me when you get a moment. Love you.”

  The message was Jo’s last, made while she was at work the day before she’d been murdered. I’d probably listened to it a hundred times in the six weeks since she’d been gone. I set my phone aside. From my outdoor deck I saw that night was beginning to fall, the lights of LA’s skyline coming on.

  I live in a building called The Breakers, named by the long-deceased developer of the property. It’s an older building, a few blocks west of the popular Melrose Shopping District. I’m a couple of stories from the top. Not to brag, but I have a jaw-dropping view of the city and, on a clear day, the ocean in the distance. The unit is only one bedroom, a remodel project five years ago when I bought it. The layout consists of a loft-like space with a marble kitchen, a living and dining area, and an adjacent bedroom and bath. Jo and I were trying to decide how to reconfigure the space to raise a child here before…