Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

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  More by this author:

  The Hollywood Alphabet Thriller Series, with Detective Kate Sexton and her canine partner, Bernie:

  •Hollywood Assassin

  •Hollywood Blood

  •Hollywood Crazy

  •Hollywood Dirty

  •Hollywood Enemy

  •Hollywood Forbidden

  Visit MZ's Website

  Now an excerpt from:

  HOLLYWOOD FORBIDDEN

  MZ Kelly

  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 effort 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. I guessed that 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 dress 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 dress was hiked up, shredded, and I was modeling a lacy red thong for the residents of Catalina. I quickly pulled my dress 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, another cop and a high school nemesis of mine, took a picture of me in the girl’s locker room wearing nothing but a smile. Jessica 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. 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 and fallen out of my purse during the scrum. 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 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 a Big Bird 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 dress. You’ll be almost as good as new.”

  Yeah, good as new for a woman who’d been flattened by a Mack truck, exposed her unmentionables to half the world, and has hair and makeup that was 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 dress 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 dress, the cop spent a moment admiring Bernie, then held out a hand to me. “I’m Buck McCade with the local sheriff’s department.”

  I took his hand and introduced myself, at the same time referencing 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, Missy, 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 dress 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. After showing my LAPD credentials, we passed through the security screeners and entered the Catalina courthouse. The screeners had balked for a moment about letting Bernie into the building, but relented when I pointed out the badge on his collar and explained that he was my canine partner.

  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 that was constructed almost a hundred years earlier and served as the focal point for tourist’s arriving by boat at Avalon Harbor.

  I’d heard rumors that over the years that 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 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 local papers. 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 my place along with my friends beside Mo’s sister Roma in front of the reporters and other spectators. 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 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 Mills said. “Of course, we all know what that means.”

  “My time is quite valuable,” Maddie’s attorney said, rising and addressing the judge. The impeccably dressed lawyer looked like he was in his mid-fifties. He was with an assistant who was probably a little older than him with thinning gray hair. Mo whispered that Clay Aster was a high-priced attorney hired by Maddie’s wealthy parents, before the lawyer went on, “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 courthouse 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. He 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, Mr. Roth. 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 I realized 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.”

  “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 defenda
nts, 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 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 in a local park. 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 said, “That bloke’s hotter than Hollywood in August.”

  “I object,” Clay Aster said, rising and addressing the judge. His 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. “Let’s hear it.”