Hollywood Forbidden: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  “We’re in session as a juvenile court,” Maxine Cooke said. “So let’s leave any specific acts of lust out of this conversation.” She craned her head at the defense table, gaveled the laughter into submission. “Have a seat, Mr. Roth.”

  After announcements that the defendants, referenced as minors, were all represented by legal counsel, Judge Cooke turned to the district attorney. “What’s the state’s position regarding detention status for the three girls, Mr. Kincaid?”

  I knew from having worked juvenile cases that detention was the equivalent of jail for juvenile offenders. There was no bail system for minors, only the power the courts exercised to release or detain a subject pending further proceedings.

  The state’s attorney stood and glanced over at the audience before addressing the judge. Tom Kincaid, as his nameplate announced, was about thirty-five, handsome, with blonde hair and blue eyes that looked like something out of a glossy magazine ad. His eyes were beautiful and iridescent, but at the same time piercing.

  “Your honor, despite the claims made by the principal defendant in this matter, this crime involves the murder of a defenseless, unarmed twenty-two year-old man. The other minors involved assisted in the cover-up, removing the body, and dumping it up in the hills. There’s no reasonable or justifiable argument that can be made opposing the detention of these minors pending further proceedings.”

  When Kincaid finished he walked back to his seat and smiled at Natalie. She leaned over to me and whispered, “That bloke’s hotter than Hollywood in August.”

  “I object,” Clay Aster said, rising and addressing the judge.

  The attorney’s deep voice made me think James Earl Jones was being channeled. The attorney looked like something out of central casting. Silver hair. Pale blue eyes. The suit was silk, hand tailored, and probably imported.

  Maxine Cooke rolled her eyes, released a breath, and pushed back in her chair. “You don’t have a right to object to the state’s argument for detention, counselor, but you do have a right to be heard.” She sighed again. “So, let’s hear it.”

  After a lengthy discourse, bringing up prior case law decisions regarding the release of minors charged in capital cases, Aster summarized his argument. “Your honor, my client Maddie Cross has been a resident of this island her entire life. She’s willing to be released on electronic monitoring, house arrest, and any other conditions the court might impose. Nothing will be gained by continuing her costly detention during trial proceedings that will likely take months while we prove her innocence. I have letters from dozens of community members supporting her release.” The attorney held up a sheath of papers. “And I don’t have to remind you that these are three African-American girls accused of crimes on an island largely inhabited by non-minority subjects.”

  “I’m quite aware of the ethnicity of the minors,” Maxine Cooke said, shaking her head at the arrogant attorney. She turned to Roth and the public defender. “Anything else?”

  Sissy’s attorney stood up and dropped his case file on the floor releasing a wad of legal documents. He scurried around, picking them up and said, “Ah…ditto to what Mr. Aster said your honor. My client…” He turned to the holding area. “Sarah?” She told him her correct name. “…Sissy is agreeable to any similar restrictions the court might impose, involving monitoring or house arrest.” Roth’s phone rang. It played a tune that I recognized was from Sex and the City.

  “Really, Mr. Roth?” the judge said. “Or should I refer to you as Carrie? I didn’t realize you swung in that direction.”

  Roth killed the ringtone, smiled at the judge. “Someone set me up. It’s a payback…”

  “Thank-you for your explanation,” Maxine Cooke said. “Now turn off that phone or I’ll click my magic heels together and find you in contempt, maybe send you to New York with Samantha and the rest of your girlfriends.”

  Roth apologized, turned the color of a pair of scarlet panties, and fumbled with his phone. The public defender, Eleanor Crawford, then rose and also made a plea for her client’s release, restating what the other attorneys had already expressed.

  The assistant district attorney was on his feet again, arguing against a release. He was passionate, energetic, and hit on all the key elements again. Brutal crime. Victim shot at close range. Body disposed of by accomplices. The defendants all fled the scene. They were a threat to the health and safety of the community.

  After Tom Kincaid concluded his argument I glanced over at Buck McCade as Maxine Cooke prepared to make her ruling. He smiled and nodded at me. It now occurred to me that he might be the arresting officer on the case.

  I drew in a breath and looked away, at the same time realizing that the handsome cop made me tingle in all the right places. I pushed some explicit thoughts about spurs and ropes out of my mind as the judge made her order.

  “I’m convinced there is no compelling argument that can allow me to release the minors charged in this matter pending further court proceedings,” Maxine Cooke said. “This is a matter involving a capital crime and I need to assure that community safety is not jeopardized. These minor defendants are to remain in detention. These proceedings are adjourned.”

  As Maxine Cooke’s gavel came down Mo’s sister Roma wailed and her body slumped forward.

  “She’s fainted again,” Mo yelled as Big Bird flopped out of her nest and landed spread eagle in the aisle of the courtroom.

  I stood up, tugged on Bernie’s leash, and we went over to them at the same time Buck McCade came over. We were both on our knees in the aisle when the overhead lights dimmed, blinked twice, and then suddenly went out. Bernie let out a whine as the courtroom was now in total blackout.

  “What the hell’s happening?” I said. Even in the darkened room I realized I was instinctively clutching the big detective’s arm.

  “I think this means we’re going steady,” McCade said, his voice full of mirth.

  That’s when the shooting started.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When the overhead emergency lights in the courtroom came on, I saw that someone was down near the defense table. I’d counted two shots while the lights were out. I grabbed Bernie’s leash and stepped over Roma who was still unconscious in the aisle where Mo was tending to her.

  I rushed over to the defense table with my gun drawn. McCade was already there along with Clay Aster’s assistant, a bailiff, and a couple of clerks. They were assisting someone who was down on the floor.

  When the path cleared, I bent down and saw that Aster had been shot through the head. Even though the lawyer was still breathing and someone had used his shirt to try and stem the bleeding, I’d seen enough shooting victims to know that he was a dead man.

  Aster’s assistant stood up. His face was ashen. “I’ve called an ambulance but this doesn’t look good.”

  “Any idea who would do this?” I asked.

  He mumbled something about not having a clue as Natalie yelled over to me, “I think the shooter ran out into the corridor.” She was at Mo’s side. I saw that Big Bird was starting to regain consciousness, thrashing around and moaning.

  “Get the prisoners back into the holding area,” McCade yelled over to the bailiff. “And secure the courtroom. No one leaves.”

  No sooner had he said the words than we heard a commotion in the hallway, somebody screaming.

  We scrambled through the double doors together, pushing our way into the outside corridor. There were several people down on the floor and under benches, trying to hide. “He went down the hallway,” a woman screamed. “He has a gun.”

  McCade called over to me as we moved down the corridor together with our guns out and Bernie straining on his leash ahead of us. “He’s probably heading for the stairway. Won’t trust the elevators.”

  Seconds later, we came around the corner and bullets flew in our direction. The shooter was dressed in black, wearing a ski mask.

  I hit the floor, pulling Bernie down with me as we took cover with McCade behind a cl
erk’s desk. There was screaming, lots of panic down the corridor. Returning fire in the crowded courthouse wasn’t an option and there was no way I could release Bernie into the hail of gunfire.

  I then realized my ripped skirt had come open as I went down, exposing my unmentionables again. I pushed the skirt down, at the same time tossing my red Steve Madden heels into a corner. “Bad fashion day.”

  McCade smiled over at me. “Not from where I’m sitting.”

  I ignored the comment. “Are there other offices, maybe a way downstairs from an employee entrance? We need to try and cut him off when he leaves the building.”

  “Let’s find out,” he said as the shooting stopped.

  We made our way through a door marked private that someone had left ajar, probably after making a hasty exit. We found ourselves inside the judge’s chambers. Judge Maxine Cooke was huddled on the floor with the court reporter and a couple of clerks.

  “Is there a way to get downstairs from here?” McCade asked the judge.

  “Down the hallway,” Cooke said, pointing to the interior corridor. “There’s some stairs that lead directly outside into the parking lot.”

  We heard more shots being fired from somewhere in the building as we scrambled down the private corridor and found the stairway. Seconds later, we burst through the doorway into a small courtyard.

  “He’s running through the parking lot,” I said, pointing as the gunman sprinted away from us.

  I reached down and released Bernie. “FASS,” I yelled, giving him the German command for attack, at the same time praying that my big dog wouldn’t get shot.

  “Let’s cut him off, try and get a clear shot,” McCade said as we chased after Bernie.

  It would have been a good plan, except for one large problem. A garbage truck barreled through the parking lot, cutting off Bernie and also blocking our path. When we finally worked our way past the truck, we heard the high-pitched whine of an engine.

  I looked up as the shooter jumped on the back of a motorcycle and lowered his weapon, aiming at us. As the motorcycle accelerated and the bullets flew, we dove, taking cover behind a parked car. Bernie chased after the motorcycle but it accelerated away from him out onto the street. The engine whined as the shooter and his accomplice disappeared into traffic.

  We chased after Bernie, me calling to him as we went. After a lengthy pursuit we finally caught up with him. I got him back on his leash and tried to catch my breath. I grabbed my knees, sucking in air, and glanced over at McCade. He was looking at me, smiling again.

  “What?”

  His eyes lowered and I realize he was looking at my skirt that had come open again. I then also saw that my silk blouse was stained with grease and my nylons were ruined. I pulled my skirt back together, met his blue eyes, and shook my head in disgust. “What a disaster.”

  He nodded, continued smiling, and said, “I guess we didn’t cut them off at the pass, partner.”

  I let out a long breath in frustration and ran a hand through my damp hair at the same time my phone rang. It was Natalie.

  “You need to come back to the courthouse right away, Kate.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the girls,” she said, her voice now breathless and full of panic. “Sissy and her friends have all been kidnapped.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Well, look what the cat drug in,” Morty Grubbins said when Bernie and I arrived at Stardust Acres that evening.

  Mo’s sister Roma ran the home for retired actors where we’d been staying for several weeks. The residence was a pink art deco three-story mansion with a magnificent view of Avalon harbor, probably built around the time the Wrigley’s owned much of the island.

  The retirement facility had a large open central piazza paved in terrazzo patterns that came together in a way that always made me think huge eyeballs were staring up at the home’s white-washed, wooden ceiling. Balcony apartments occupied by dozens of aging actors overlooked the open courtyard.

  Roma had a small staff of assistants who did everything from meals to laundry to shopping errands for the stars of yesteryear. The Stardust had a couple of Oscar winners, a few Tony Award winners, and a motley collection of has-beens who still wanted to be treated like they were Hollywood royalty.

  The problem was, at Stardust Acres, everyone thought they were royalty, which made for more drama than a daytime soap opera. Daytime being the operative word since most of the residents were in bed by eight o’clock.

  “You should have said, look what the dog drug in,” I said to Morty.

  I was still wearing my ripped up, pinned together skirt, the stained blouse, and as the day had worn on I decided my hair looked like something that had washed up on the shores of Avalon Bay.

  Morty Grubbins was the president of the Stardust resident’s’ council. The retired actor, who we were told had played a detective in a 1950’s television drama, was pushing into the lower regions of ninety. He still had a full head of white hair, swept back from a prominent brow above inquisitive gray eyes. His busy white moustache crested above a mouth that was always open, both because Morty loved to talk and he always seemed to be sucking on an unlit cigar.

  “I guess you heard about the day’s fireworks,” I said as Bernie went over and did a tail wag for Morty.

  “Shame about those girls.” He sucked the cigar, removed it. “You want Detective Floyd Dane’s advice on the caper, I’ll give it to you.”

  Detective Dane was Morty’s TV show persona. I was exhausted but humored him anyway. “Sure, Mr. Dane. Tell me who did it and where the girls are being held.”

  “Punks.” He sucked, blew out invisible smoke. “In a cage.”

  “What?”

  “Island punks out for a payday. The girls are being held in a basement, probably in cages until Roma pays up, then…” More sucking. “This might not end well, sweetheart.” He turned and waved a hand toward the Stardust Acres cafeteria. “Why don’t you and Bernie join me for dinner? I’ve got a bottle of Dom I’ve been saving just for the two of us.”

  Morty was not only the Stardust president, he was also a letch, especially when it came to younger women. “Thanks but I think I’ll take a rain check. Long day.”

  “You sure, doll? You and I could take it upstairs after dinner.” He sucked again. “Detective Dane’s got some magic pills that will put some lead back in the old pencil.”

  “I’ll be happy to join you for dinner, Morty,” Loretta Swanson said. She’d snuck up behind us like a stealthy stalker, as was her usual practice.

  Thanks to a few rounds of plastic surgery, Loretta had a permanent expression that Morty secretly referred to as a, “lemon sucking pie hole.” The lemon sucker sneered at me and blinked her blue eyes. They were highlighted by fake lashes that were so long it looked like two tarantula spiders had taken up residence on her face.

  Loretta looked at Morty, adding, “I might not be as young as legs here, but I’ve still got a few sparks left in the engine.”

  Morty winked at me and whispered, “An engine that backfires a lot.”

  Lucky for Morty, Loretta was nearly deaf. From what I’d been told she’d been a Rockette at one time, before bad knees and an even worse attitude got the better of her. She’d then gone on to portray a nurse in a soap opera before the series was cancelled. Loretta had been on Morty’s tail since I’d been staying at the Stardust.

  “I just lost my appetite,” Morty said to Loretta, yelling so that she could hear him. He lowered his voice, winked at me. “It’s a medical condition brought on by old broads with a bad attitude.” He sucked and wandered off, humming a tune.

  That left me and Loretta staring at one another, the ancient lemon-sucking Rockette trying to use her tarantula death ray on me. I knew she was worried about me trying to steal her man.

  Bernie and I excused ourselves, turned, and almost bumped into Natalie. She was holding Bubba, Bernie’s love puppy.

  Bubba was seven months old, still more
puppy than adult dog. The furry ball of love was a cross between Bernie’s genetic stew and a black lab named Thelma. The result was more German shepherd than black lab, with a big nose that had sniffed out every Stardust resident willing to give him a handout. Bernie’s baby boy had a pot belly and more doting grandparents than anyone had a right to.

  Natalie glanced at Loretta, back to me. “That’s one daft old lady. She needs to get laid worse than a slag in a cathouse.”

  “She reminds me of Nana,” I said, agreeing with her. Nana was our landlord, also in her eighties, and always on the hunt for a man. “How is Roma doing?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  “In bed. Mo gave her a fistful of zannies, knocked her out. She’s ‘bout ready for the cracker factory.”

  We walked to the patio just off the main courtyard where we met up with Mo. She looked at me like a heavyweight boxer who’d just gone ten rounds with Floyd Merriweather. “What’s the latest?” Mo asked.

  I wanted to choose my words carefully but there was no way to sugar coat what had happened. “Sissy and the others were taken out of the courtroom by the bailiff after the shooting. He was confronted by two masked men in the holding area who shot him at point blank range and took off with the girls through a back entrance. The sheriff’s department spent the day processing the crime scene. So far, they haven’t come up with any prints or identifying information on the kidnappers, but it’s still early in the investigation.”

  “You gotta do something,” Mo said, the pitch in her usually deep voice rising until it reminded me of a siren. “Sissy’s my sister’s only daughter. If something bad happens, Roma’s gonna come unglued and right now there’s a lot more crazy than glue.”

  I was about to respond when we heard a voice from the third floor balcony. I looked up in time to see Sal Walsh strutting around on his balcony, shouting, “To the lions, I say. Throw them to the lions. They haven’t had a decent meal since Moses parted the Red Sea.”