Hollywood Prisoner: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  After Henry waived his rights, Leo began by asking him about the heroin he had in his possession.

  Most of the bluster had gone out of our suspect as he answered. “I needed the money, and…” He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong and stupid.”

  “Who is your supplier?”

  Henry sniffed. “I usually just buy at the park from whoever is dealing, then resell it.”

  I knew it was a lie, but decided to keep quiet, for now.

  “Let’s talk about who you sold to at the studio,” Leo said. “In particular, we want to know about Campbell Turner.”

  Henry’s pupils dilated. He took a moment to answer. “She just bought now and then.”

  Leo shook his head. “We need you to level with us. You’re in big trouble. If you cooperate, things might go easier on you. We know that Campbell was a regular user and you were her dealer.”

  Henry sighed and shook his head. “We had an arrangement. She bought what she needed a couple of times a week.”

  “And how much did she need?” I asked, unable to keep quiet any longer.

  Perspiration popped on his forehead. “Sometimes a half-dozen bags, a few times more than that.”

  “Why?”

  Henry looked at me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You knew Campbell for several years. What was going on with her that she needed heroin?”

  Henry’s gaze moved off and he shrugged. “I’m not sure…she seemed really unhappy. I think it had something to do with her family.”

  “Her family,” Leo said. “You mean her boyfriend?”

  He nodded. “Maybe that was part of it.”

  “Was Blake Lambert also using?”

  “She said they sometimes shared.” Henry took a moment, then went on. “It’s just a guess, but I think he was cheating on her.”

  “Do you know who he was seeing?”

  He shook his head.

  “What about Luke Morgan?” Leo asked. “Were he and Campbell involved?”

  Henry chuckled. “No way. He was…I think he liked her, but he was just a kid.”

  “Any thoughts on why he might have gone by her house on the day he and Campbell were killed?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  I had the sense Henry was holding something back and decided to find out what it was. I raised my voice. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Henry. I’m going to personally talk to the DA and see that he pushes for the maximum sentence allowable in your case.”

  He started to cry. “I don’t understand. I’ve told you everything…”

  “You’ve told us what you wanted to tell us. We need to know what was really going on with Campbell Turner, or it won’t be easy for you.”

  His tears came harder. “I don’t know, exactly. Like I said, she was really unhappy because of her family.”

  “You already said that—because of her cheating boyfriend.”

  “No. I think it was more than that. Campbell said once that something bad happened a long time ago. Whatever it was, I think she was hiding from that.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  After arranging for the transport officers to take Garth Henry to jail, Leo and I made the drive to the Police Administrative Building in Los Angeles for our meeting with Chief Dunbar. We were a few minutes early, so we stopped by to see Woody Horton and Harry Braden.

  “How goes life in the glass tower?” Leo said, as we took seats in their office.

  “Not bad if you like lots of hot air,” Woody said.

  “Not to mention ass kissing,” Harry added.

  Woody looked at me and lowered his voice. “To tell you the truth, we’re spinning our wheels here, Kate. As you know, the search of Ryland’s house turned up squat, and Pearl’s still in the wind.”

  “Speaking of Pearl,” I said, “Leo and I went by his house last night, just to see if there was any sign of him having been home.” I handed over the photograph we found. “Everything looked the same as before, but we found this in a box that was above an access panel at the top of his closet. It’s a picture of Pearl and my biological mother, Judie Crawford, taken more than thirty years ago.”

  The two detectives studied the photo for a moment. “You said this was in a box?” Harry said.

  I nodded. “With a few other miscellaneous photos. I can send them your way, if you’d like, but I didn’t recognize anyone in them.”

  “We’d like to take a look,” Woody said. “It’s not like we’ve got anything else to go on.”

  “Any thoughts on why Pearl would have this photograph?” Harry asked.

  “Not sure. It might be that he is my father, but it’s impossible to say for sure.” I then told them I would send the other photographs to them and mentioned what Mo had told me. “Rumor has it that Harlee Ryland and Brett Denver, the washed up actor, have been hooking up. He’s also a Tauist, from what they told me. As you probably know, Denver’s bad news. Nothing good will come of their relationship.”

  “We did hear some buzz about that,” Woody said. “We’ll check it out further and try and find out if he has some ulterior motive.”

  We said our goodbyes and made our way to the sixth floor for our meeting with Dunbar. As it turned out, the meeting was attended by most of the chief’s immediate command staff and Media Relations, along with Captain Dembowski and Lieutenant Edna. We spent the first half hour going over our progress on the case and telling them that Campbell was a heroin addict, before discussing the arrest of Garth Henry.

  “Henry admitted dealing heroin to Campbell for years,” I said. “He also said he thought Lambert was cheating on her.”

  “Did he say with who?” Dunbar asked.

  Our new police chief was a wiry man, with a serious expression and steel gray hair, cut short. The word hard-ass came to mind whenever I saw him.

  “Henry didn’t know,” Leo said, “but he also said that Campbell was a very unhappy young woman, maybe over some issues in her past.”

  “Not good enough,” Dunbar said. “Turner’s father thinks we’re missing something and is planning to go to the press about it. I want more progress. What does Lambert have to say about all this?”

  “He’s in seclusion,” Edna said. “Whereabouts unknown.”

  “Seclusion,” Dunbar spat. His dark, hard eyes surveyed the room. “I want him found, and I want to know exactly what he knows. I’m having dinner with Jimmy Castello tonight. I’m pretty sure I can get him to hold off on going to the press for twenty-four hours, but we’ve got to shake something loose.”

  After Media Relations and some of the command staff left the room, I stayed behind to fill Dunbar in on the latest with the FBI. I then told him, “The feds are planning to send their taskforce to LA within the next week and focus their efforts in this area.”

  Dunbar scowled and Leo’s phone was ringing as he said, “I’ve already talked to Greer. You’re cleared to help out because of your sister.” The chief fixed his steely eyes on Leo because he’d taken the call. “Can’t that wait?”

  Leo held up a finger and took a moment, telling whoever was on the line that he’d be in touch. “That was our crime analyst,” he said, putting his phone away. “She was just notified that Blake Lambert has been found.”

  “It’s about time. I want you to get some answers from him tonight.”

  Leo shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s dead.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “The BPA tells the real story,” Gino Cash told us. “Blake Lambert’s death was a homicide, not a suicide.”

  It was a couple hours after our meeting with Chief Dunbar. Leo and I were in a motel room in Long Beach that overlooked the ocean, along with Brie Henner and Kathy Maitland. Gino Cash was an expert on Bloodstain Pattern Analysis, recently hired by SID. Darby and Mel had taken a break to get a bite to eat.

  Blake Lambert had been f
ound by a motel maid. He was lying in bed, with a single gunshot wound to his head. Brie had already examined the body and determined that he’d been dead about four hours.

  Cash went on. “Self-inflicted gunshot wounds are typically at an angle of ninety degrees or lower in proximity to the temporal region. In the case of our victim, the wound was significantly higher.” The middle-aged criminalist used a finger, pointing it high up on his own bald head. “This is the approximate location of the entry wound, thus accounting for the dispersal of blood and brain tissue on the bedspread and headboard.”

  I looked at Brie and Kathy. “Do you agree?”

  Kathy nodded and Brie answered. “The tissue and blood patterns remind me of that couple that was murdered on their honeymoon about a year ago. We’ll need to do angular studies, but I don’t think this was a suicide either.”

  I remembered having worked the honeymoon murders with Brie as Leo said, “And the note?”

  He was referencing a blood splattered hand-written note found lying on a nightstand and ostensibly written by Lambert. The note said that Luke Morgan had been involved with his girlfriend, they’d had some kind of argument, and Morgan had murdered her. When he came home and confronted Morgan about what happened, Lambert admitted he’d shot him in anger.

  “Lambert might have been forced to write it,” Kathy said, referencing the note. “We’ll try to find some handwriting samples and do a comparative analysis.”

  Leo and I thanked them, then went over to the balcony of the hotel room. The sun was setting, and there was a handful of people strolling on the beach.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think we start over. If this was, in fact, a homicide, there’s another player that we’ve missed.”

  “The man with the bloodstain on his shirt?”

  “Mysterious Mr. X, so it would seem.”

  I played out a scenario. “Suppose our Mr. X murders Campbell for some unknown reason and leaves the scene before Luke Morgan arrives. Morgan maybe looks in the window or finds the door open and sees Campbell’s body. Blake Lambert comes by shortly thereafter, finds Morgan with his girlfriend, and comes unglued. He kills Morgan, believing that he, in fact, murdered Campbell, when it was actually Mr. X.”

  Leo shook his head. “There has to be more to this. Mr. X must have suspected that Lambert knew he was involved. He wants to tie up all the loose ends, so he kills Lambert, making it look like a suicide. He then leaves a note, blaming Morgan for Campbell’s murder.”

  I agreed that it might have gone the way he speculated, then asked, “Have you heard how we’re coming along with our witness’s sketch of Mr. X?”

  “Selfie said it’s completed, but doesn’t think there’s much to go on, and the sketch definitely doesn’t look like Kevin Costner. She’s going to send it to our phones.”

  “We found some baggies of heroin in the bedroom dresser,” Kathy Maitland said, calling to us through the open door and drawing our attention back inside the motel room.

  We went inside, where we saw there were four bags of heroin on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s black tar,” Leo said, examining the bags. “Not like the stuff Campbell was using.”

  Black tar was a less refined form of the opioid, often produced in Latin America.

  “Maybe Lambert had another dealer.” I looked at Kathy. “Does Lambert have track marks on his arms?”

  “A couple, one that looks like it’s a few days old. He probably chips.”

  Chipping was drug use on an irregular basis, often described as recreational use.

  I saw Leo was checking his phone as I said, “Looks like we’ve got more work to do on this.”

  He put his phone away, and his usual smile was gone. “My granddaughter isn’t feeling well again. Her mom’s going to take her to the ER, so I’m going to call it a night and stop by the hospital.”

  “I hope she’s okay,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

  ***

  An hour later, I was on my way home when I got a text from Natalie, reminding me that Boris’s big makeover and coming out party was scheduled for that night. I was exhausted and thought about skipping the event, but I’d made a promise to go.

  “I hope you’re ready for a werewolf makeover,” I said to Bernie in the rearview mirror as I made a U-turn and headed up into the Hollywood Hills.

  Ravenswood, the estate where our former landlord lived with Boris, was a sprawling gothic-style residence on several acres overlooking the city. It looked like something you might have found in the English countryside a couple hundred years ago. The house was dreary, dark, and in need of major repairs; in short, the perfect place for Boris and his band of ghoulish relatives.

  When I got near the residence, I saw there were dozens of cars lining the roadway. After finding a place to park, Bernie and I made our way down the circular driveway. Lights were set up on the grounds of the estate, and it looked like about a hundred people were milling around near the pool.

  Bernie and I were about to make our way through the crowd when I heard Natalie’s voice calling to me. “Kate! We need help up here!”

  I saw that she was on the second story balcony, where I knew there was a master bedroom overlooking the grounds and pool.

  “I’ll be right up,” I said.

  I began walking through the yard to the house and had a thought about the crowd being in a festive mood, like they were gathered here for a holiday celebration. The only problem was, the holiday that came to mind was usually celebrated with the colors black and orange and often involved monsters. The holiday was over three months away, but the crowd milling about near the pool for Boris’s coming out party brought to mind Halloween.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but the partygoers grew quieter, and all eyes seemed to turn in our direction as Bernie and I made our way over to the house. I’d been to Boris’s brother’s wedding to Nana a few months earlier and thought maybe some of the family recognized me. If that was the case, they probably knew I was a friend of Nana’s and likely wanted to kill me.

  I was almost to the house when I ran into Norman Bates. Okay, he wasn’t really the character from the movie Psycho, but he was creepy, with the eyes of a serial killer—and, believe me, I’ve seen a lot of killers.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Howie Cromwell said, coming over and staring at me.

  I realized this was probably another one of his numerous personalities. I did my best not to say anything that would make him want to dress up like his mother and slash me with a knife.

  “It looks like a big crowd,” I said.

  Howie, or Norman, didn’t smile. “It’s going to get ugly.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  His crazy eyes fixed on me. “Despite my sartorial expertise, I have a feeling that Boris’s family isn’t going to be happy with his new look.”

  I scanned the crowd, seeing several ghoulish, unhappy faces. I decided that whatever Boris was wearing had to be an improvement over the dark, uninspired outfits that I saw. “I guess we’ll just have to hope for the best.”

  I said goodbye, turned my back to him, suppressed imaginary sounds of the slasher music from Psycho, and made my way inside the residence. When I got to the second floor bedroom, I found Natalie and Mo with a woman who they introduced as Estelle, a hairdresser to the stars.

  “Estelle here has worked on all the big celebs, even the ones with fake hair,” Natalie said.

  “Careful what you say ‘bout fake hair, baby sis,” Mo said, grooming her yellow wig.

  “I’m not sure what I’ve done tonight was entirely successful,” Estelle said to me. The hairdresser looked to be around thirty, with flowing auburn hair and green eyes. A Disney princess, whose name I couldn’t place, came to mind as she added, “There was a problem with a cowlick that I’m afraid I couldn’t quite manage.”

  “A cowlick,” Natalie said, laughing. “More like a bunch of porcupine quills on Boris’s ugly noggin.”
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  “I ran into Howie, and he’s not entirely happy with Boris’s taste in clothing, either,” I said.

  “Boris looks fine for someone who’s the mayor of Zombie nation,” Mo said. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s show time. Let’s all take our places with the family.”

  As we walked downstairs, I mentioned what Howie had said about there possibly being trouble. I then said, “By the way, where is Nana?”

  “She’s gonna walk the runway with Boris,” Natalie said. “I got a feeling it’s gonna be like the comin’ out party for the bride of Frankenstein and Count Dracula.”

  Estelle laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “I think she’s exaggerating. Despite Boris’s physical limitations, I’m sure his family will be pleased with his new look.”

  As it turned out, Boris’s physical limitations were worse than any of us could have imagined. Nana had hired a lifestyle coach, someone who we were told was named Doobie, to announce the arrival of the happy couple.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Doobie announced, with a flourish. “I am pleased to present one of Hollywood’s newest and most celebrated residents, Mr. Boris J. Whipple, and his escort.”

  Nana came out of the residence first, looking like an eighty-year-old Las Vegas showgirl. She was wearing a short, ruffled red dress, dark stockings, and an odd little hat that was sprouting feathers.

  “She looks like an ancient hooker that’s been left out in the sun too long,” Natalie said.

  I put a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh, as Nana pranced down the runway.

  Mo whispered, “I seen a lotta strange sights in my time, but I think I just popped an artery—my brain’s ‘bout to have a stroke.”

  In a moment, my laughter turned to astonishment as Nana’s new man appeared from a doorway. There was an audible gasp from the crowd as Boris stepped forward and took Nana’s hand. As he got closer, the gasps turned to murmurs, or maybe it was just complete bewilderment at what we were witnessing.

  “He looks like one of them queen’s guards, wearin’ a flippin’ bearskin hat,” Natalie said, a little too loudly. “Is that really his hair?”