Hollywood Enemy: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  “Master? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “A master artist—someone who’s perfected the art of murder in his own unique way.”

  I glanced at the reports again, the realization of what he meant dawning on me. I looked up, meeting eyes that in the soft light of the cabin now looked almost amber. “A master who considers each victim a work of art.”

  Greer nodded, tipped up his bottle of Evian. He set the bottle down and went on, “The Artist works at night. He usually takes his victims from their homes while the parents are asleep. He always leaves a signature at the crime scene.”

  He pushed a single sheet of plain white paper in a plastic envelope across the table to me. Someone had taken an artist’s brush and painted a Chinese symbol in black. It resembled a backward letter J with a smaller unfamiliar mark leaning up against it.

  I looked up at Greer. “Do the profilers have a theory about what this means?”

  “It’s the traditional Chinese symbol for death. The profilers believe The Artist uses it to represent his power to kill at will and with impunity.” Greer motioned to the file in front of me. “As you’ll see in the reports, it’s something that we’ve held back from the press. He’s been consistent, leaving the symbol behind whenever there’s an abduction.”

  I held the symbol in my hands, looked up at him. “How does he kill them—the girls?”

  “The tox reports all show that he uses a drug called etorphine when he takes his victims. It’s a muscle relaxant that’s normally used by vets. It works by rapidly depolarizing every muscle in the body. It basically renders the victim incapacitated during the kidnapping but has a short term effect.”

  I’d skimmed the report as he talked. “So he paralyzes them and takes them home?”

  “The profilers think he has a dedicated work space, maybe a basement or a room in a house that he uses as his studio.”

  I looked up from the reports I’d been skimming, the shock of what I’d read registering. “He paints their faces.”

  Greer nodded. “It’s an elaborate process involving several layers of oil based paint. The layering technique is common to artists who work in that medium. The profilers think it takes him several hours to complete a canvas.”

  “A canvas.” The words escaped from a dark place inside me, a box where I tried to keep the evil I’d witnessed in the past hidden away. The horrific crimes we discussed were beginning to unlock that box again.

  The FBI agent’s lips pursed together. He nodded, explaining, “Once the canvas is completed the victims are posed, sometimes in a hotel room or abandoned house. In other cases he’s taken his canvas to a public location, such as a park or office building, where it’s displayed. In one of the Chicago murders he took the victim back to her own bedroom from where she’d been abducted and posed her. She was found by her parents.” He indicated the file in my lap. “There are photographs in the back.”

  “Any eyewitnesses?” I asked, removing a manila envelope from the back of the folder.

  “We’ve had a few reports of people saying they think they saw someone in the areas where the victims were left but they’re conflicting and unreliable.”

  I reached into the envelope, hesitated. “I don’t supposed there’s been any DNA, prints, or trace that’s worthwhile?”

  Greer shook his head. “Nothing. The Artist is very meticulous.”

  We were quiet for a moment as I took a breath, steadied myself, and opened the envelope. As the photographs spilled out on the desk between Greer and me I pushed away the horror of what I was seeing and tried to concentrate on the facts.

  The first group of photographs had been taken from a distance several feet away from the victims, maybe as the girls had been originally found. Each victim’s face had been painted in a way that reminded me of those renaissance paintings I’d studied in college. The girls were all dressed formally, each in a flowing white gown that gave them a strangely angelic appearance.

  While the images were shocking and sad, there was also something strangely beautiful about the way they’d been painted and posed. The artwork was so exceptional that the girls all looked alive, except…I looked closer, noticing something strange about the victims. I found the close-up photographs beneath the longer range shots and gasped, realizing what I was seeing.

  “Their eyes,” I said, looking up at Greer. “They’re all missing their eyes.”

  The FBI agent’s swallowed but his tone didn’t waver. “The artist removes them…while the victims are still alive.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The eyes are probably taken as a trophy.” Greer said before pausing and taking another sip of water. “None of the victim’s eyes have ever been recovered.”

  I took a moment, maybe to build some kind of internal defense against the horrors I was hearing about. “What do we know about his most recent victim?”

  Greer removed a photograph from a satchel on the seat next to him and placed it on the desk. “Susan Wellington, age nineteen.”

  I studied the photo. It was a high school portrait of a beautiful young woman with brown hair, unblemished skin, and deep blue eyes. I looked up at the FBI agent as he went on.

  “Susan was taken from her mother’s home sometime between midnight and six in the morning. The Artist always sends a letter to a local newspaper when he takes a victim, announcing his upcoming exhibition.”

  “Exhibition?”

  He handed me a letter with a short typewritten paragraph. It announced that the “maiden,” Susan Wellington, had been selected for, “transformation,” and that she would be on display as an exhibition within twenty-four hours. It had a hand-written signature by the man who referred to himself as, The Artist.

  “The victims are always posed,” Greer said, checking his watch. “The Artist always displays his victims within twelve to twenty-four hours after their abduction. This time we’ve been given a full day before…”

  I picked up the photograph again, thinking about the girl’s mother, the horror she must be suffering. I handed it back to him. “The victims—how are they killed?”

  Before answering, Greer took a call. When he hung up, he said, “We’re going to stop in Phoenix and pick up your partner. More about him in a minute.”

  He took another moment, using the phone system in the plane to tell the captain about the stopover. Greer then went back to telling me about our victims.

  “The girls are drugged while he works on them. The autopsies all show trace amounts of Oxycodone in their systems. When he finishes his canvas, the profilers believe the victims are awakened but still restrained. The Artist then surgically removes their eyes.”

  I sighed, the revulsion of what I was hearing tearing at me. “And then?” I took a breath, bracing for the rest.

  “Once the display is in place he uses another injection of etorphine, only this time one that’s fatal. The victim loses all muscle control and dies within seconds.”

  I heard the disbelief in my own voice. “You’re telling me that over the span of a few hours the girls are all paralyzed, blinded, and then murdered.”

  Greer nodded, his gaze drifting off. He released a breath and found my eyes again. “We’ve followed up on the drug issue, ad nauseum, cross referencing vets and their assistants that would have access to the drug. We’ve even created our own nationwide database. It’s turned up nothing worthwhile.”

  “What about the painting of the victim’s faces? I suppose you’ve checked with art schools and universities.”

  He nodded. “Same results. We’ve gotten nowhere.”

  I breathed in and out evenly, trying to steady my nerves and process the horror of what I’d heard. “The victims—are they sexually assaulted?”

  He shook his head. “Our guy seems to get off on the painting, mayhem, and posing. He changes the victim’s clothes when he poses them, including their underwear, but there’s no evidence of sexual penetration.”

  I took a moment and picked up the photograph
of Susan Wellington again. The young woman was beautiful, timeless in that way young people have when their entire life is ahead of them. I couldn’t help myself, again imagining the horror her mother was enduring.

  “How many years?” I asked, looking up at Greer. “How long has this been going on?”

  The FBI agent took the photograph, placed it back in an envelope, and handed the entire contents over to me. “As I said, the Artist makes sure there’s an audience when he has an upcoming exhibit. He sends a letter to a local newspaper announcing each posing. Sometimes there’s months between the abductions, but the letters go back to July 2004.”

  I pushed a hand through my hair at the same time again becoming aware there wasn’t much there. “Why me?” I said. “Why was I chosen for this assignment?”

  Greer pushed back in his seat and exhaled. “Joe Dawson wanted someone who worked in the jurisdiction where the first victim was taken. The Artist began his reign of terror in Hollywood.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Who’s Dawson?” Before he could answer another thought came to me. “If The Artist sends a letter to the newspapers, why wouldn’t I have heard about the Hollywood case?”

  “That first case is over ten years old.” He smiled. “I would venture a guess you weren’t with the department at the time.”

  I nodded. “Still in college.”

  “The editor of the Los Angeles Herald-Press contacted the police when he got the letter. He agreed not to publish it. Since it was The Artist’s first killing, the crime never got the sensational coverage it did in other cities when he moved on.”

  Greer took a moment to finish his bottle of water and then said, “Back to Joe Dawson…” He took a breath, his gaze drifting off and then coming back to me. “He’s the replacement for Hugh McCray who worked the case for a number of years. By coincidence McCray lived outside of Kansas City, not far from Tulsa. He apparently became depressed before committing suicide last month.” He shifted in his chair, crossed his arms. “As for your new partner, he’s…” Greer paused, clearly searching for the words to explain what he was thinking. He checked his watch. “We’ve only got an hour so I guess I’d better talk fast.”

  “He must be a real prize,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t be teamed with someone like Charlie who tried to act like my surrogate daddy, constantly worrying about me.

  “You want my opinion, Joe Dawson is one of the best agents the FBI has ever had. He’s a legend with the agency, but he’s also stubborn as hell, difficult, opinionated, and maybe even a little irrational at times.”

  My brows lifted and I smiled. “So why are you trying to sugar coat it? Tell me the truth.”

  Greer smiled for the first time since we met. “Joe had almost twenty years on the job and at least a dozen scores on high profile cases when he met the new director at a conference about three years ago. Henry Gross was giving a presentation, something about using GPS in cell phones to track criminals. Joe came into the room after spending most of the afternoon at the bar. The story goes that he told Gross he was full of shit and said something about GPS standing for the director’s theory being a Gross Piece of Shit.”

  I smiled, thinking about Jack. “Reminds me of a cop I know.”

  “The director didn’t find the comment amusing. Long story short, Dawson was pushed aside and forced into early retirement. He hasn’t worked since.”

  “And he’s coming out of retirement because of The Artist?”

  “After Gross moved on I called in some favors and got the green light from his replacement to talk to Dawson. It took me several weeks, a case of Scotch, and a promise to, I quote, ‘Stay the fuck out of my way,’ before I got him to agree to come back.” Greer leveled his hazel eyes on me. “And just so you know, I’m not going to be on the ground with you. You’ll be on your own with Dawson and the locals.”

  “Sounds like a load of laughs.”

  “The other condition that Dawson demanded when he came back was that I partner him with a local cop who knows the jurisdiction where the first crime occurred. He’s got some theory about the case that I’m sure you’ll eventually hear all about.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Greer shook his head. “You probably won’t think so in a few minutes. When I called your chief and asked for someone to be on our taskforce, for some reason I didn’t think he’d send a woman.” He rubbed his jaw, regarded me. “Dawson’s also got a thing about women.”

  An image of Elmer Skully flashed through my mind. The now deceased police captain had gone out of his way to make my life miserable because I was a woman. “Just so you know, I don’t play nice with women haters.”

  “Just so you know, you’d better develop a thick skin then, get ready to do battle. Joe Dawson’s opinion of women starts somewhere lower than Death Valley.”

  It went on like that, Greer doing his best to prepare me for the worst, until our stop in Phoenix. When Joe Dawson swaggered onto the plane it took less than five minutes for me to know that John Greer had gone easy on me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Special Agent Joe Dawson looked like he was in his early forties. He was broad shouldered and stood around six feet tall, with sandy gray hair and pale blue eyes that immediately took in everything in his surroundings, including me.

  Loretta, our flight attendant, came over and offered Dawson food and drink.

  “Nothing now, sweetheart,” Dawson barked. “Check with me when I get settled in.”

  As the attendant rushed off, I stepped forward held out my hand and introduced myself.

  Dawson looked at my hand, then swung his big head up and down taking in the rest of me. “Do me a favor. Try and stay out of my way, Buttercup.” He turned and started to walk to the back of the plane but stopped, came back to me, and said, “You a lesbian?”

  My mouth fell open in disbelief. “No, but if I was it would be none of your business.” I’d moved up until I was less than a foot from him, close enough to want to wipe the stupid smirk off his face.

  He laughed and walked to the back of the plane. It was one of those belly laughs that bullies make, just before they smack someone in the face for no reason.

  I took a seat several rows away from him, gulping in air and trying to calm myself. A few minutes later Greer took me back to where Dawson was sitting and tried to make nice. After ten minutes and more insults directed at both of us, Greer stomped away in frustration, mumbling something to me about having to work this out on my own.

  I stood there, looking at the smart-ass agent for a full minute, considering how to handle him. Just before I was about to tell him he was full of shit, he looked up at me and said, “I’ll have a Scotch, hon. Two rocks.”

  I did my best to imitate our flight steward’s voice. “Why certainly, Mr. Dawson, sir. I’m new here at Fed Air. I’ll see if I can find two rocks for your drink, but around here we just call it dog shit.”

  I sat down, locked eyes with him. After a lengthy stare down, he said, “Hollywood, huh? Figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The land of fools, freaks, and fairytales. I’m sure you fit right in.”

  “Is that your profile of me?”

  His lips pursed together. He cocked his head to one side, studying me. “You asked for it.” He looked me up and down for a second time, then went on, “You’re about thirty. Divorced. Your husband cheated on you and you’re having trust issues. You don’t have much money but spend every cent you have. You like your job but it’s a struggle, trying to reconcile the vile, evil things that go on in the world with your desire to try and see some good in other people. You’re a short fuse that’s burning down like a cherry bomb until you burnout. You also have unresolved issues with your mother. You have a quick temper, you’re sometimes sullen, bordering on depression.” He glanced up at my hair. “And your sexuality is…I’ll just call it ambiguous so you won’t go off on another rant.”

  I laughed, maybe a little too loudly. I had to admi
t he wasn’t that far off on some things he’d said, but then I knew much of his profile about relationship and parenting issues was true for almost everyone. Still, he had struck home on some issues—of course, there was no way I’d ever admit it.

  Dawson’s smirk blossomed in all its glory. “Well, how’d I do?”

  “Maybe you need to go back to Quantico, ask for their profiling 101 refresher course.”

  His smile grew wider, reminding me of that donkey, or should I say jackass, in the movie, Shrek. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Buttercup.”

  I cocked my head, giving him the once over again. “My turn.”

  The donkey’s smirk came back, his chin jutting out. “Take your best shot, sweetheart.”

  I let him have it with both barrels. “Joe Dawson grew up poor. He had a single mother and a father who was never around. When his father did occasionally show up he was an abusive asshole. Little Joey took that anger and abuse inside as he grew older. And what was inside eventually came out. He turned into his father, had several failed relationships. Angry with the world, Joey gave expression to all that angst and anger—he used both his fists and his mouth to give it expression.

  “In time, young Joe was lucky enough to get hired by the feds. He used his newly minted gold shield in the only way he knew how—to show everyone what a big man he was. He eventually became a pretty good agent, using both the bullying and intimidation techniques he learned as a kid on everyone he met. Everything went according to plan until Joe’s drinking problem got in the way, he opened his big mouth to the wrong guy, and got sent into early retirement. He spent the last three years turning his liver into something that resembles a dead skunk. All that anger keeps boiling up inside of him until one of these days a vein busts in his big dumb head and he goes lights out.”