Hollywood Prisoner: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller (14 page)

“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 found 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.”

“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?”

“Where’d that crazy suit he’s got on come from?” Mo said, her heavy brow suddenly developing as many lines as Nana’s.

“Who the hell are you to make fun of my son? Boris can’t help it if somebody picked out a stupid outfit for him.”

I looked over and saw that it was Boris’s mother defiantly responding to what Mo had said. While Wilhelmina didn’t exactly look like a woman who had been cursed or even a warthog, as Natalie had warned us, I had to admit there was a porcine aspect to her features. It was also obvious that she was angry—no, make that livid.

“Watch what you’re saying,” Howie said to Boris’s mother, in the persona of Norman Bates. He placed his hands on his hips, moving closer to Wilhelmina and taking exception to what she’d said. “I chose his outfit, but I can’t be responsible for him not being able to pull it off.”

The outfit was, to borrow one of Natalie’s favorite adjectives, ridiculous. It consisted of a ruffled white shirt, short pants, with white tights, and a flowing crimson robe. And then there was Boris’s black hair. While it didn’t exactly look like the bearskin hat Natalie had described, it did stick straight up on his head like he had his finger stuck in a light socket.

“The popinjay looks like he’s flippin’ Henry the Eighth,” Natalie said, laughing.

I looked over at Mo and saw that her mouth was gaped open, but she wasn’t speaking. Maybe she’d had that stroke she warned us was coming.

“This is an outrage,” Wilhelmina said, looking at her relatives for support. “I won’t allow my son to be seen in public like this.”

“’Fraid it’s too late for that,” Natalie said. “He’s probably gonna end up in one of them gossip rags as the world’s ugliest man.” She looked over at Boris and shook her head. “Hey, maybe we should make him a crown.”

That got the crowd really stirred up. Several people began shouting that the family had been disgraced.

Mo finally found her voice, telling me, “I think there could be a riot.”

Howie, or Norman, came over to us and said, “Don’t try and blame me for this. I didn’t have a lot to work with.” He looked at Estelle. “I think it’s his hair that’s the problem.”

“His hair can’t even technically be called hair,” Estelle said. “I would describe it as a quill.”

What she said caused more shouting. The crowd began to advance in our direction. The only thing that stopped them was the sound of a helicopter coming over the hill. It landed in an area of the yard that had been roped off from the crowd.

Nana and her new beau made their way over to the helicopter as children came out of the crowd, scattering flower petals in front of them. The couple stopped before getting into the chopper and turned to the crowd.