Hollywood Games: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  The producer of Hollywood Gold didn’t bother with a handshake. “Who is your prime suspect, Detective?”

  “It’s still early in the investigation, we’re…”

  “You’re fucking clueless is what you’re telling me.” Steiner was about five six, pushing two hundred pounds. His fleshy face was red, probably both from alcohol abuse and anger. Something about him brought the term blowhard to mind. He continued, “I’m going to put my own people on this.”

  I took a step closer to him. “This is a police investigation. That means the police investigate, not your people.”

  Steiner smiled, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Mr. Biggs?” I asked, trying to control my anger and get him to cooperate.

  His brows became pinched. “Jiggy was loved by everyone. None of this makes any fucking sense.”

  “I understand there was a lot of disagreement on the show, conflict with the other realtors.”

  He waved a hand. “That was nothing, just show business.”

  “And, just for the record, where were you earlier in the day?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

  My eyes drilled into him. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Steiner shook his head. “In Vegas at the Bellagio losing a couple hundred grand. My rotten fucking luck goes with this rotten fucking day.”

  I gave him my card and walked away. I took a moment and let Bernie trot through the grass, deciding I needed the break to calm down. After taking several deep breaths I looked back over at Steiner. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It looked like my new partner was getting the producer’s autograph on his notepad.

  After Steiner left I stomped over to Gluck. “What the hell was that all about?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a big fan. He’s got lots of contacts. I figured it couldn’t do any harm to let him know I’m a budding actor.”

  I reached over and took the autograph from his hands and ripped it up.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I pitched my five nine frame closer to him and looked into his cat eyes. “I’m only going to say this once. You are a cop, not a fucking actor. You either start acting like one and do your job, or I’ll see to it that you never work in this town again—and I’m not talking about the movies.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We spent the remainder of the night doing a cursory search of Biggs’ mansion but came up empty. I thought it was possible that whoever had murdered him had taken his cell phone. We discussed trying to get the phone records from the cellular carrier and made plans to interview both Wesley Breen and Gloria Powers later in the day. I told Gluck I was going home to get a couple of hours sleep and that I’d see him at the station around noon.

  Bernie and I saw there was a moving van in front of the house when we arrived in our Mount Olympus neighborhood that overlooked Hollywood. Nana, our elderly landlord, was in front of the house instructing the movers like a cop directing traffic on a busy highway.

  “Make sure the bigger items are in the back and don’t break anything,” Nana warbled. “I spent a fortune on QVC for some of this stuff.”

  “I see you’re not wasting any time moving,” I said, when Bernie and I came over to her.

  Nana was in her eighties, both in age and weight. She was mostly bony arms and legs, except for a lot of wrinkles, white-blue hair, and a set of oversized dentures. In recent months her personality had changed, possibly due to taking a sexual rejuvenation drug that had given her the hormones and attitude of a teenager.

  “Elvis got himself a long term gig at the Wormwood Hotel in Vegas,” Nana said. “They want a Bad Elvis.”

  “Well they certainly have the right guy, then. I’ve never met a worse impersonator.” Okay, I didn’t say it. Instead, I bit my lip and then said, “He’s not that bad.”

  “You don’t understand.” Nana turned to the house, put two fingers to her lips, and whistled. Bernie’s ears came up and as the front door opened. Her seventy-something boyfriend, who reminded me of Humpty Dumpty with a dead raccoon on his head, came running from the house wearing nothing but boxers and a white wife beater t-shirt.

  “Is it time to go,” Elvis said, huffing like he might pass out at any moment.

  The king of rock had an enormous belly and skinny arms and legs that seemed to be constantly in motion. It occurred to me that maybe his personality, which bordered on clinical depression with thoughts of suicide, might have something to do with his new job.

  “The movers aren’t quite ready yet,” Nana said. “Why don’t you show Kate your Bad Elvis routine?”

  “Ah, do I gotta?” Elvis’ voice was a deep growl, probably the result of spending lots of nights in smoky lounges.

  “You need the practice.” Nana turned to me, her oversized dentures, something she called Leos, shining in the mid-morning sunlight. “He’s still a work in progress.” She turned back to her elderly boyfriend. “Go ahead.”

  Elvis grimaced as though he had a bad attack of gas. He stood up a little straighter, like he was doing a stand-up routine in front of an audience, and said, “I used to be a young Elvis. Now if I tried to act my age I’d be dead.”

  “Interesting,” I said, turning to Nana. It was the best I could come up with.

  “Try another one,” Nana urged him.

  Elvis’ face contorted again and he scratched the black raccoon on his head. “I tried doing a hand stand the other day but my stomach hit me in the face.”

  Nana turned to me. “Better.” She swiveled back to him. “Now try something dirty.”

  This was apparently a tall order for the king. He scratched and hummed, and then finally said, “I went to my optometrist the other day and asked him for a new pair of glasses. He gave them to me but said, ‘I don’t know why you want new glasses at your age, you’re almost dead.” I put them on, looked at him, and said, ‘Before I croak I wanted to see what a little dick looks like’.”

  “How ‘bout one more,” Nana said, apparently still not completely satisfied.

  I shook my head. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve been up all night. I’ve got to get some rest.”

  Nana’s lips widened. Her Leo’s looked at least two sizes too big for her mouth. “I heard you finally got laid by some cowboy.”

  I yanked on Bernie’s leash and turned toward the house, trying to ignore her. “Have a safe trip.”

  Behind me I heard Nana saying to Elvis, “Maybe we should get you a cowboy hat.”

  I found Natalie and Mo in the family room with Prissy, Nana’s transsexual great grandson. Prissy was about six five but probably didn’t weigh a whole lot more than Nana. He was swathed from head to toe in a tight gauzy material that gave the impression he was a mummy looking for a Halloween party. It was one of his better outfits.

  “Mo and me are gonna go look at some more places to rent today,” Natalie said to me. My beautiful British friend had on a short skirt and tight blouse. Maybe she thought it would help convince a landlord to rent to us.

  “We need some place with a good vibe,” Mo said. “Maybe some of that fang shay.”

  “You mean, feng shui,” I said.

  Mo shook her big head at me and grimaced. “That’s what I just said.” She looked at Natalie, “I’m thinking someplace upscale, maybe over in Brentwood or even in the 90210 zip code.”

  “We can’t afford to live in those areas,” I said.

  “Jerry said he’s gonna work with some of his clients and help us out,” Natalie said. “He’s got a lot of contacts and promised to find us a really good deal.”

  I was about to warn her to be wary of Jerry when Prissy said, “I wonder if he could find me a place? I think I’d like a condo with a view and lots of mirrors. It’s so dark and dreary here that I hate getting dressed in this place.”

  Considering what he was wearing, he did have a point. I suppressed a yawn and said, “I’ve
been up all night. I’m going to get a couple of hours of sleep and then head back to the station.”

  “Kate’s probably sore from being in the saddle all night,” Mo said as I began walking away.

  As I closed my bedroom door I heard Natalie saying, “I wonder if she’d let me borrow her spurs one of these days.”

  ***

  After a couple of hours of restless, sleep Bernie and I got to the station just before noon. I was officially assigned to the department’s Homicide Special Section in Los Angeles, but had been allowed to continue to work out of Hollywood Station since most of my cases were in the area. I found Harvey Gluck sitting at Charlie’s old desk across from mine. I was missing my old partner as I settled in and looked at my overflowing in-basket.

  Gluck said, “What in the hell…”

  I looked up and saw that my new partner had pulled several bags out of his desk drawer. They had a picture of an airplane on them.

  I realized they were the bags used by the airlines for air sickness. “Somebody must have heard about your evening.”

  “Damn it.” He tossed the bags in his trash can. “This is all I need.”

  “Try to forget about it. Let’s talk about our case. Anything on Biggs’ cell carrier?”

  “I have a call in and was told they’d get back to me as soon as they can pull up the records.”

  “What about Breen and Powers?”

  “I set appointments for later this afternoon. I had to work around their real estate schedules.”

  I looked at him for a long moment, annoyed that he was working around someone else’s schedule, rather than asserting himself. It made me wonder about his background, the assignments he’d worked. “What did you say your prior duties were in Chicago?”

  “Patrol and then some vice…” He sighed, dragged a hand through his gelled hair, and lowered his voice. “Who am I trying to kid. I worked on a special task force but I mostly did desk duty.”

  “What kind of task force?”

  His jade eyes found me, but his gaze then drifted off. “There was some vandalism going on in the city. It was starting to get out of hand so the department set up a special unit.”

  “And?”

  His eyes found me again. “And…well we mostly…there were a lot of garbage trucks being graffitied.”

  I laughed. “So you worked garbage patrol.”

  “Shhh.” His gaze darted around the stationhouse. “Not so loud. I’ve already got enough problems.”

  I glanced up and saw that Jessica Barlow and her partner, Barry Liebowitz, were headed our way. “Your problems are about to get worse.” Bernie released a low growl as the duo stopped in front of us but didn’t say anything.

  “What is it?” I finally asked, looking up at them and at the same time hoping they would go away.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Jessica asked.

  I noticed that Jessica had on even more makeup than usual. It also looked like she’d put on a couple of pounds which cheered me immensely. Jessica and I had gone to high school together. A few months back, I realized that I’d dated her high school crush after she’d lost her virginity to him. Jessica had said she would never forgive me for what I’d done.

  Her partner was short and balding. Other cops said that he had the look of a little boy who was afraid to make a move without his partner’s permission. My own take was that Barry Liebowitz was simply missing a portion of his anatomy that was necessary for reproduction.

  “This is my new partner, Harvey Gluck,” I reluctantly grumbled.

  They shook hands. Afterwards Jessica took a step back and cocked her head, apparently considering my new partner’s workspace. “I see a certain someone left you a few presents.”

  Gluck quickly gathered up the rest of the barf bags, stuffed them in a drawer. “Just somebody’s idea of a joke.”

  “If I were you,” Jessica said, her gaze swinging over to me. “The first suspect I’d question is the one sitting across from you.”

  My eyes narrowed on her. “What are you talking about?”

  She went on, turning back to my new partner, “Sexton and her idiot former partner had a reputation for hazing and practical jokes. I personally filed several harassment claims against them. I would suggest you consider doing the same.”

  I stood up and took a step closer to her. “Why don’t you take your stupid act over to the comedy club on Wilshire. I heard they have a special running this week. They’re looking for someone with no sense of humor or style.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “I’m not going to put up…”

  “Enough,” I heard Lieutenant Edna say, coming up from behind her. “Sexton, Gluck in my office now.”

  Jessica started to lodge a complaint but Edna turned away from her and said, “I don’t have time for this now.”

  As we headed for Edna’s office Jessica said to me, “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  I turned to Gluck and said, “If that’s the case I’m going to need one of your barf bags.”

  “Here’s the fucking deal,” Edna said after we took seats in his office and Bernie found a corner. “Barry Steiner just gave an interview to some reporter about your case. Her name is Bashimba. She made a taped guest appearance on that idiotic TV show, Hollywood Confidential, that’s airing tonight.”

  “Basheeba,” Gluck said.

  “What?”

  “The reporter’s name is Basheeba. She’s got contacts with all the major players in Hollywood.”

  Edna glared at him. “I don’t give a shit if her name is Bashimba, Basheeba, or fucking Beelzebub.” His gaze found me. “Steiner and the reporter just turned the heat up on us big time. From what MRS is telling me, he’s saying he’s got no faith in us finding Biggs’ killer and he’s putting his own people on it.”

  MRS was the department’s Media Relation Section in downtown Los Angeles. “That doesn’t surprise me. He came by Biggs’ house this morning and said something similar. He’s got an ego the size of Mount Rushmore.”

  Edna wheezed, ran a hand through his thatch of gray hair. The lieutenant was in his fifties, probably a year or two from retiring. His brown eyes bounced between us. “Break it down for me. Let’s hear everything you got on Biggs.”

  We took the next half hour going over the details of the case, explaining how Biggs was found shot to death in his hot tub and that we were still trying to find his cell phone.

  “We interviewed my friends, Natalie Bump and Mo Simpson, as well as Jerry King, Biggs’ partner on the TV show, but didn’t get much. We’ve got interviews lined up with the other real estate agents from the show this afternoon. After that we’re going back through his house again.”

  “What about gang stuff? I heard Biggs was a rapper.”

  “According to King he hadn’t cut a record in about three years. The gang involvement was in his past.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Gluck said. He looked at Edna who gave him the stink eye. His tan complexion flushed. “I mean, about him not cutting any new songs.”

  Edna shook his head, turned to me. “I’m gonna put Kramer on this with you since you’ve got the rookie. Let’s break something loose.”

  We were headed for the door with Bernie when Edna called out, “Hey Gluck.” We turned back to him as he tossed my new partner a tube of something. “Stick that under your schnoz when you need it. I got enough problems. I don’t need one of my detectives barfing up a crime scene. Now get the hell out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We met with Wesley Breen in a penthouse suite at One West Wilshire, an upscale high rise development in West Hollywood. My new partner had been quiet on the drive over. As we took the elevator up to the top floor I asked him if he was okay.

  “It’s been a tough couple of days, now even the lieutenant’s on my case. I’m not sure this assignment is a good fit for me.”

  I wasn’t sure it was a good fit either but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “My first assignm
ent was working for a captain who had over forty years on the job and didn’t like women. He made my life miserable, hoping I would quit.”

  “How did you get past it?”

  “I worked with an FBI agent a few months ago who said something about the need to be a survivor in this job, never quitting. I think it was good advice. The job has its good and bad days. You can’t let one or two bad ones get to you.”

  Gluck thanked me for the advice as the elevator opened directly into the penthouse. We were met by an unsmiling middle-aged woman who had an iPad in her hands.

  “I’m Maggie Norris, Mr. Breen’s assistant. Mr. B’s on the phone. When he finishes his call you have exactly fifteen minutes before his next meeting. You may wait in the living room.” She turned toward a room that overlooked the city, then swiveled in the other direction, and sauntered off.

  “Not much personality,” Gluck said as we moved into the living room.

  “I doubt that she’s ever heard the word.”

  We took a seat on a stylish sofa with chrome accents while Bernie settled at my feet. A palette of earthy tones highlighted the room, the walls painted in soft browns and cream colors. The artwork had a beach theme with a retro vibe apparently inspired by the seaside cities around Los Angeles. Maybe I was just being catty, but I thought the designer had been a little too earnest in his or her attempt to be cool. Then again, maybe I was just jealous because I knew I would be homeless in a few days.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Wesley Breen said, coming in through a sliding glass door from the observation deck. “I hope I can be of some help but I seriously doubt it.”

  The real estate agent was impeccably dressed in a white suit with a pink silk tie. He was probably in his mid-thirties, had blonde hair, and eyes that were almost the color of Gluck’s. It hadn’t occurred to me before but I had a sudden thought that my new partner might also be gay.

  I made introductions and asked about Breen’s relationship with our victim. “How long have you known Mr. Biggs?”

  Breen cut his eyes to my dog. “I hope he doesn’t shed. We spent a small fortune on staging.” He glanced around the room. “Nine point three million, if you’re interested.”