Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Page 13

  He came over to me again, taking my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”

  I put on my best Charlie face, giving him a serious, blank expression. “Okay, but I need to ask you something important first.”

  He came closer, his eyes narrowing, and his voice full of concern. “What is it?”

  “You ever heard of something called a snizzler?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’d survived my night with Jack—barely. We’d spent much of our time exploring the fine line between pleasure and pain. When our coupling finally ended he’d said that he was worn out. He’d also said that he’d never experienced anything like the snizzler before. I’d told him that he’d better be nice to me because my vagina was now licensed to kill.

  The following couple of weeks passed with me still deskbound while Jack, Charlie, and John Duncan worked in downtown Los Angeles at Homicide Special Section on my father’s case. Ryan Cooper had still not been found, but they were able to locate an apartment in Hollywood where he’d been staying before going to Seattle.

  The small flat had been rented under an alias, but the landlord, who lived downstairs, said that a woman had come around asking about Cooper just before he skipped out on the rent. She’d given them a description of an attractive, tall young woman with dark hair, probably in her twenties, but nothing much else to go on.

  I was going a little stir crazy with my paperwork duties until I got a call and heard a familiar deep voice. “Hey, Buttercup. How are things in Hollyweird?”

  I laughed. “Rather boring actually, Joe. Are you still in Tulsa?”

  “Headed back there tomorrow. I talked to Greer. He wants us both in the city as the killing cycle gets closer.”

  We were a couple of days away from it being one month since The Artist had taken Darcy Tate. My stomach felt like it was in a knot, my breathing forced and shallow. I didn’t know if I was ready to deal with another victim being kidnapped and tortured.

  I pushed the discomfort down and said, “I’ll give Greer a call and probably see you there.” Before I ended the call I thought of something. “I’ve been looking at the original reports on the first victim, Joanne Vreeland, the girl who was taken in Hollywood. I even talked to her mother.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “She mentioned that Joanne was in the school band. I think it’s something all the victims have in common.”

  “Being in a band?”

  “No, the arts—all the girls are interested in the arts, just as the profilers pointed out. But I think their interests are specific to music, painting, or dance. It’s a commonality that all the victims share.”

  He didn’t respond right away, maybe considering what I’d told him. He finally said, “Maybe it’s something worth following up on.”

  “Joanne was also part of a youth group at her church. I went by and talked to the minister there. He’s only been there a few years, but said he’d ask around and see if anyone remembers her. I called him back a couple of hours ago, but so far he hasn’t come up with anyone who knew Joanne.”

  “It might also be worth going by the school she attended.”

  “I’m heading over to her high school this afternoon, maybe try and talk to a teacher or two if there’s anyone still around from when she was a student there. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.” I then remembered about the designer shoes the victims all wore and told him about that.

  “Shoes, huh?” Dawson said. “Maybe our guy is gay.”

  “Maybe or it could be he’s just very particular about what his girls wear.”

  “I think I’ll run it past the professor. It’ll give him something to do, maybe keep him out of my way.”

  I chuckled. “Has he forgiven you for putting him out by the side of the road?”

  I heard the mirth in Dawson’s voice. “The professor can be very understanding and forgiving, especially when he’s upside down in a bathroom stall.”

  My eyes grew wider and I laughed again. “You didn’t?”

  “See you in Tulsa.”

  ***

  As I drove with Charlie and Bernie to Hollywood High School that afternoon I called John Greer. He said he wanted me on a plane to Tulsa the following afternoon. I then called Lieutenant Edna and told him I would be heading home to pack after going by the school. After the call ended I turned to my less hairy partner, who’d insisted on tagging along with me, and filled him in on my plans.

  “You be careful,” Charlie said, yawning. “This Artist guy sounds like he’s one crazy shit bird.”

  As I turned on Highland Avenue I glanced at my partner and saw all the classic signs. Charlie was exhausted, unkempt, and he’d even smiled a couple of times—all signs that he and Wilma had gotten back together. Even though I knew better, I asked him about her.

  “Let’s just say, Wilma and me are exploring our darker sides.”

  “Sorry I asked. I don’t want to hear about it.”

  He smiled, this time wider. “I stopped by that store your roommate owns, got some supplies.”

  “What? Are you talking about Prissy’s place?” My roommate owned a local goth shop called, Voodoo Mama. The store specialized in an assortment of bondage equipment.

  “Yeah.” His smile grew even wider, now bordering on perversion. “Wilma likes her games.”

  “Enough,” I said. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that even Bernie seemed distressed. Charlie spared me the intimate details only after I threatened to take a page out of Joe Dawson’s book and leave him at the side of the road.

  When we got to the high school, the vice-principal, Harlan Wexler, agreed to meet with us. As Bernie settled next to Charlie and me, I explained why we were there, asking if there were any staff members still around who might remember Joanne Vreeland.

  Wexler was about thirty, balding, with a pasty complexion, but he seemed earnest in wanting to help. “I transferred to the school three years ago.” He paused, drumming his fingers. “I know that Mrs. Dunlop, who teaches history, has been at this school for over a decade. I could call her if you’d like?”

  While we waited for the teacher, Wexler asked me if there was something new with the investigation. The school day was ending and I saw the students leaving their classes through his office window. Without going into details, I told him there were other victims that might be related to the cold case. He then went back to discussing Joanne.

  “I do remember hearing something about the girl’s death. It was very shocking at the time. I just assumed it was one of those random, terrible things that sometimes happens.”

  “There’s a pattern to the homicides,” I said, glancing around his office. “There are other victims that we think…” My eyes held on a series of yearbooks on the shelf behind him. “Would you happen to have a yearbook from 2004? Joanne Vreeland would have been a junior at the time.”

  He went over to a shelf and in a moment brought over the yearbook. “These things have gathered a little dust.” He brushed off the edition from 2004 and handed it over.

  Charlie and I glanced through the book. I found the same portrait of Joanne Vreeland that her mother had shown me and pointed it out.

  My partner shook his head. “She was just a kid. Too bad.”

  I took a couple of minutes, skimming through the yearbook until I found one other photograph of Joanne. The history teacher came through the doorway and I said hello, before glancing back at the photograph of Joanne playing in the school band. There were about a dozen other kids in the band and a teacher in the background conducting the class. The kids all had that dopey, posed expression you often see in yearbook photos.

  Wexler formally introduced Barbara Dunlop when I finished with the yearbook. The teacher looked like she was about sixty with bright red dyed hair. We asked her about our victim. “Yes I do remember her but my recollection is rather vague, I’m afraid. Joanne wasn’t someone involved in a lot of activities. I think she was a rather shy girl.”

  “I
see that she was in the band,” I said, showing her the yearbook photo.

  “I do remember that.” Dunlop took a moment and glanced at the page. “It seems like such a long time ago.” She smiled. “Of course, when you’ve got thirty years on the job people come and go.” She glanced at the photograph again. “You might want to talk…no, I’m sorry he’s passed on also.”

  I accepted the yearbook back from her. “I’m sorry, who were you going to mention?”

  “I was thinking you could talk to the band teacher but he passed away around the same time as Joanne. His name was Ellian Lofton.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “SHE’S THE ONE,” the voice screams.

  The Artist is in a dance studio, hiding in plain sight. He’s with other spectators, waiting on the sidelines as they watch the girls practice their routines. A tingle of anticipation runs down his spine when the chosen one gets up and dances, at the same time Ellian’s voice urges him on.

  “Which one’s yours?” This voice is different. It startles him. He turns and sees a man who’s older than him, smiling as the girls dance.

  He motions to one of the other girls, not the one that’s been chosen. “The one in the back. She has blonde hair.”

  The man’s brows come together. “That’s my daughter.”

  The artist pushes down his anxiety, forces a smile. “No, no, I’m talking about the other blonde girl.” He isn’t even sure there is another blonde girl. He excuses himself and moves away from the man. In a moment, when he’s sure no one is paying attention, he slips out the door and disappears into the city.

  “SHE IS PERFECT.” The voice is even louder now, crashing through his head. He knows he can no longer ignore it. It causes his stomach to churn, leaving a sour feeling in his mouth.

  “Yes, Ellian,” he assures the voice. “We will take her.”

  Laughter fills his head. It’s a jeering, sing-song explosion of mirth that’s so loud The Artist has to stop walking. He finds a bench and places his hands on his head, covering his ears. The sour feeling continues, the bile in his throat rising, until he bends over and vomits.

  “PERFECT…PERFECT…PERFECT…” Ellian says, the titillation in his voice growing. “We must always seek perfection.” The voice changes, growing harsh as it lowers, “You are not perfect. You are disgusting, ugly, vile. Tell me why you are so horrible?”

  “Because I’m flawed…I’m not…” The Artist is trembling now, his skin slick with perspiration. He begins to shake and falls over on the bench, bringing his legs up until he’s in the fetal position. He continues to hold his head…rocking…rocking…rocking, begging Ellian to stop.

  “You are not what?” Ellian demands.

  “I…I am not…completed.”

  “Yes,” that’s it,” Ellian says. “Only the work will complete you. You must finish the work, you must take two more maidens, then we will see if you can be...made whole.”

  The Artist’s muscles begin to twitch until they feel like they’re on fire. His body writhes on the bench. He holds his head, begging for silence. “I will…I will…yes…yes…yes.”

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  The Artist looks up and sees the policeman staring at him. Behind him there’s a crowd of onlookers gathering. He forces himself to sit up. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I…it’s just…it’s one of my migraines.”

  “Would you like me to get medical attention?” the officer asks.

  “NO!” He realizes he’s shouted the word and then lowers his voice. “I mean…I just need a few moments. I’ll be fine. Thank-you.”

  The officer doesn’t respond. He studies him for a long moment. The Artist forces a smile, controls the tremors. The cop waves for the onlookers to move on. “Okay. I hope you feel better.”

  It’s almost an hour later when The Artist finally feels well enough to leave. The voice has finally gone away, but only after it threatens to come back and fill up his head until it explodes if he doesn’t do what is demanded.

  Ellian wants another girl—soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I got to the airport late the next day. I’d spent the night at Jack’s apartment again. We’d used my ninja powered assets to full advantage now that I’d fully recovered from my earlier muscle strain. After our coupling session, Jack had again asked me about moving in with him. I was still noncommittal, something that I knew had upset him. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, still unsure about my feelings.

  When John Greer had called he said that he was still on another assignment and I should meet up with Joe Dawson at the Tulsa police station. The same flight attendant as before greeted me when I got on the plane. After I’d settled in she came over and offered me drinks and snacks. I accepted a bottle of Evian and chatted with her about working for the FBI.

  “I’m just a contract employee,” she explained. “I’m on call, as needed.”

  I saw her name tag but also remembered her name as she spoke. “Your job must take you all over, Loretta.”

  The stewardess was pretty, probably in her twenties, with blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes. She was tall with a slender figure that gave her a sweet, girlish look.

  “Yes, you just never know,” she said. “One day I can be in California and the next day Maine.” Her voice grew more confidential. “I know I shouldn’t be asking but I read the papers about the case you worked on the last time we were in Tulsa. Have you caught him yet—The Artist?”

  I shook my head. “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “It’s so terrible. I think about those girls sometimes and wonder if it’s safe to travel.” She smiled and her voice grew even softer. “I guess it’s a good thing that I’m getting married this fall. I’ll be able to give up the travelling, maybe even have a baby one of these days.”

  “How wonderful. Congratulations.”

  She went on for a few minutes, telling me about her fiancé who worked in the insurance industry before excusing herself. I took the rest of the flight to again review the files on The Artist’s victims. I’d gone over the reports at least a dozen times and felt like I was spinning my wheels. The only thing I did know for sure was that if The Artist kept to his schedule another girl would be taken in the next twenty-four hours.

  I found Joe Dawson in a conference room at the Tulsa police station the next morning. He was with Bill Hass, Marcel Reed, and Kent Zender, who had apparently forgiven Dawson after his restroom therapy session.

  I’d glanced at the Tulsa World newspaper headlines after getting off the plane yesterday. The city was on edge with The Artist’s deadline to take another victim looming. I’d even read that some vigilante groups were forming and talking about trying to track down the killer.

  As I settled in at the table Dawson took a moment, using his now familiar deep, authoritative voice to summarize where we were on the case. He then turned to Kent Zender. “The professor put on his tutu and has been tap dancing around, following up on the victim’s shoes.” He nodded at Zender, raising his eyebrows.

  The professor shot Dawson darts before he began updating us. “As we know, the victims in our case are dressed in gowns and wear Andre Magradi shoes. The designer shoes are imported from Pomezia, Italy. The company is a family operation that’s been in business for over thirty years. Fortunately for us, I speak fluent Italian, so I was able to call and speak with the owner of the shop directly.”

  The professor’s braggadocio wasn’t lost on Dawson who did an eye roll and grumbled, “Get to the point.”

  “The point is,” Zender said, not looking at Dawson. “Unlike the retail outlets where most of their shoes are sold, the family keeps very meticulous records of the direct orders from their factory. Over the past ten years there have been several factory orders for the designer pumps matching those worn by our victims that roughly coincide with the dates of the murders.”

  “Who placed the orders?” I asked, hearing the excitement in my voice.

  “A man named Elli
an Lofton. The orders were sent to…”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, looking from Zender to Dawson. “I know that name.”

  “An old boyfriend?” Dawson asked.

  “He was Joanne Vreeland’s band teacher.”

  “Who?” Bill Haas asked.

  My adrenaline was surging, my voice rising. “The first victim of The Artist. She lived in Hollywood and was a junior at the high school there when she was murdered. According to one of the teachers at the school, Lofton was the music teacher, but he’s now dead.”

  “The orders for the shoes have been going to a mail drop in Hollywood under Lofton’s name,” Zender said. “Sometimes the orders are for several pairs, occasionally just one.

  “When was the last order sent?” Dawson asked.

  The professor checked his notes. “Less than six months ago. Lofton ordered three pairs, all matching the shoes our victims wore. He paid by credit card.”

  Dawson looked over at me. “Either Ellian Lofton is still alive or someone’s using his identity.”

  “As in The Artist,” I said. Then I remembered the yearbook the vice principle had let me borrow. While I retrieved my briefcase I told them about Joanne Vreeland being in the school band and her mother telling me that she was very talented. I then opened the yearbook to the page where there was the photograph of Joanne with the other band members.

  The others came over to where I was sitting and looked over my shoulder. There were twelve kids in the photograph, seven boys and five girls, as well as the band teacher, Ellian Lofton.

  I looked up at Dawson. “Are you thinking what I am.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I should quit the agency, become a mind reader.”

  “I don’t get it?” Marcel Reed said, scratching his big double chin.

  Dawson looked over at him. “We could not only be looking at our first victim but also The Artist and just don’t know it, Marcie. He might have been in the band, went to Europe with Joanne, and then came back and murdered her.”