Hollywood Murder (3 page)

“I’m going to have to work late tonight,” Vince Marsh told his wife.

It was a little before six and the handsome attorney had already had a long day. He went over, held his bride of seven years in his arms and kissed her. He turned in time to see the kids playing in the living room. Jenna was six and, as usual, seemed lost in her own world. She’d been diagnosed with autism when she was four and didn’t talk. Bobby had just turned four and was her opposite. He was your typical boy; loud and full of energy. Vince and Allison publicly referred to the children as their little darlings. Privately, Vince called them the little monsters.

“Daddy!” Bobby said, running over and leaping into his arms. “Did you bring me a treat? I want candy.”

Vince contemplated squashing the whiny little boy like a bug, but said, “After dinner mommy will get you and your sister something special.” He looked at Allison, raising his brows.

After a five minute whining session, Bobby finally wandered off, satisfied that his mother would give him a cupcake if he ate his dinner.

After Bobby was gone, Vince knew his wife was still upset over his earlier comment about working late. He smiled and lied through his perfect white teeth. “Sorry about having to go back to the office. It’s that Johansen case. If all goes as planned, we’re expecting the jury will award a large settlement in a few weeks.”

Allison turned away from him and scowled. “Gosh, where have I heard that before?”

Vince went over and took her in his arms again. Allison Montreal was thirty-one, tall and blonde, with the lithe figure of a dancer. Vince had known that she’d had her choice of suitors when they’d first gotten together. It had taken him months to finally win her over and get her to agree to marry him. Even then, he knew Allison was high maintenance. Now, he despised her existence.

After lots of reassurance that his late hours would finally pay off, Allison gave him a pouty look and said, “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were having an affair.”

Vince forced himself to laugh.
If you only knew the real story.
“Why would I cheat on the most beautiful woman in the world?”

She brushed her lips against his. “You always were the charmer.”

“Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night. I’ll make sure Maria can stay late and watch the kids. We’ll have dinner at the harbor and then…” He laughed. “Like I said, I’ll make it up to you.”

Allison laughed, breaking the tension. “I’ll make sure you keep your promise.” She cut her eyes to the kitchen. “You’d better check with Maria before you leave. She said something about meeting her sister after work tomorrow night.”

Vince did as she suggested, only for appearances. The dinner and their evening together would never happen. By tomorrow night, his wife and children would be gone—hopefully for good.

After getting the housekeeper’s promise to change her plans and work late, Vince kissed his wife and children goodnight, and headed back to his office. As he drove, he was happy about one thing in particular. He would never again have to make love to his complaining bitch of a wife.

Allison’s father was none other than Henry Montreal, a wealthy investment broker who headed his namesake company, Montreal Investments. He was one of the richest men in the country, not that you’d know it from Vince’s point of view. His father-in-law was a miserly old bastard who had made it clear to him that he had no plans to share his immense fortune with him.

He remembered a conversation he’d had with Henry shortly after he’d married Allison. They’d just returned from their honeymoon when Henry had invited him to play a round of golf at the Wilshire Country Club. The day hadn’t gone well. After they were joined by a couple of Henry’s elitist friends, Vince had embarrassed himself by playing one of the worst rounds in his life. He’d spent much of the day pretending not to be bothered by their laughter and comments about his game.

“Let it go, Marsh,” Henry had said over drinks after his friends had left later that day. He laughed. “Maybe you should consider the entire round your Mulligan. Just forget it ever happened.”

Vince had chuckled and tried to play it off by saying, “Next time let’s put a little wager on the game. I always play better under pressure.”

Henry’s dark eyes had held on him. His face was solemn. “That’s not what I hear.”

Vince sipped his Mendelson Ninety-Nine, a craft beer he was fond of. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but Ben Harrington and Randall Duffy are friends of mine.”

Vince released a breath. He’d been with the law firm less than a year, and already knew he hadn’t made much of an impression. “I’m still adjusting to their style. I realize I have a lot to learn.”

Henry’s smile had been just short of a sneer. “Just so you know, what you’re after isn’t going to happen.”

Vince had set his beer aside. “I’m sorry?”

“You think because you married Allison, you’re set for life. That’s not going to be the case.”

“I don’t expect…”

Henry had cut him off. “Here’s what I expect. I expect that you will become one of the best lawyers in the firm of Harrington and Duffy. I expect that you will eventually become a full partner. And, I expect that you will give my daughter everything she ever wanted—without any help from me.”

Vince had tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. It was only as he spoke that he realized the double meaning to what he said. “I’ll make sure Allison gets everything she has coming to her.”

Montreal had slapped him on the back and ordered another round of drinks. “That’s what I expected you’d say.”

In the years that followed, his relationship with Henry Montreal hadn’t changed. His father-in-law had made good on his pledge not to give one cent to help out him or his family. And, while he’d eventually made partner in the law firm, Allison had spent nearly every cent he’d made. They were heavily in debt and had even considered filing bankruptcy. He pushed the thoughts away, knowing all that was going to end—tonight.

After a twenty-minute drive, Vince pulled into the parking garage beneath the high rise where he worked in downtown Los Angeles. He pulled a burner phone out of the glove compartment and called Frank Dyer. When he got the private investigator on the line, he wasted no time making his expectations clear.

“They will be in the house alone all night, but the housekeeper leaves at ten. Everything needs to be taken care of before that. You already have the security code. After…” He paused, taking a breath. “When you’re finished and the package is delivered, I want to know right away.”

Dyer’s voice was low and raspy. “Consider it done.”

The former soldier had told him that he’d been injured in the Iraq War, during the initial invasion of the country. Dyer said he’d been shot, the bullet nicking his vocal cords. The PI claimed it had taken several surgeries before he could speak again.

Dyer’s reedy voice came back on the line. “What about my payment?”

“It will be wire-transferred to your offshore account. You’ll get the remainder that we agreed upon after the job is finished.”

Dyer didn’t respond immediately. Vince thought he’d ended the call, but heard the PI’s wavering voice again. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Vince put the TracFone away and took the elevator up to his office. He not only planned to have a pleasant evening. After the night was over, he planned to have a pleasant life.

After leaving Natalie and Mo’s apartment, I took Bernie for his evening stroll around the apartment building. The Barkley Bungalows were undergoing renovation and scaffolding had been set up in front of several of the World War II era units. Despite the construction and rather odd assortment of tenants—several aspiring actors, including some who played zombies, lived in the complex—the place was finally beginning to feel like home.

When I got back to my apartment, I had a bite to eat, watched a little TV, and got ready for bed. Noah called just after nine and asked me about my day.

“It was uneventful,” I said, sitting on my bed. “Except for being held at gunpoint by a billionaire.” I took a moment and filled him in on my meeting with Collin Russell and what he’d told me about his son being involved in the Revelation.

“You really believe there’s an organization that’s running things behind the scenes in Hollywood?”

“I’ve heard rumors about it for years. I’m not sure how much of it’s true, and, if it is, how much control they have. From what Russell said, they’re powerful and will stop at nothing to get their way.” I went on a moment longer, speculating that Malone and the group might be behind the murder of my love-dad.

Noah was obviously concerned. “If this group does exist, you need to be careful. I’ve got big plans for you and I don’t want anything interfering.”

I lay back on the bed. “What exactly do you have in mind, doctor?” Noah was a local veterinarian who lived with a menagerie of dogs, cats, and other assorted animals. We’d met when he’d treated Bernie for a minor injury to his leg.

“I was thinking about dinner and a concert this Saturday night. If you’d like, we could come back to my place afterward.”

“Just you, me, and a couple dozen dogs. It sounds very romantic.”

He laughed. “I promise to keep the dogs downstairs. We probably won’t end up with more than one or two in bed with us before the night’s over.”

“You’re starting to sound very domestic.”

He lowered his voice. “I think you’ll find that’s not entirely true.”

“I’m counting on it. See you Saturday night.”

I stayed in bed, thinking about how my life had changed in the few short weeks since Noah and I had met. Dr. Noah Fraser was a former marine. He’d lost his leg below the knee when an IED hit his armored vehicle while he was on patrol in Iraq. After several surgeries, he’d come through the experience remarkably well, thanks to lots of therapy, including the companionship of a therapy dog. Noah’s lifelong love of animals and his traumatic experiences in Iraq had convinced him to become a vet.

I’d fallen asleep to pleasant thoughts about our lives together when my phone rang. I saw that it was just after midnight when I answered the call from my lieutenant, Ozzie Powell.

“You and Leo just caught a case over in Hancock Park,” Oz said. “Dembowski says it’s going to be high profile when the media gets some of the details. He wants Hall and Peters on it with you. Now that I’m awake, I might also stop by.”

Melvin Dembowski was our captain. Darby Hall and Melvina Peters were a couple of detectives recently assigned to Section One.

I sat up on the bed, rubbing my eyes. “What do you know about the case?”

“Just that the maid was murdered and the family’s gone missing.”

“Missing, as in kidnapped?”

“Maybe. We’re not sure at this point. All I do know is that it’s a pretty bad scene at the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“The maid’s sister went by the residence to check on her when she didn’t come home. She said the front door was open and she found a body inside that she thinks is her sister.”

I dragged a hand through my hair, deciding I must still be half asleep. “I’m not sure I understand. Why didn’t she recognize her own sister?”

“The body was missing the head.”

***

Even though Section One was stationed in Hollywood, the unit was authorized to handle high-profile homicide cases occurring anywhere within the boundaries of LAPD. Hancock Park was a historic district in central Los Angeles, just south of Hollywood and surrounded by the Wilshire Country Club. The affluent subdivision was developed in the 1920s, with architecturally distinct homes and large yards. I remembered reading somewhere that the area had several celebrities living in the sprawling homes over the years, including the legendary actor John Barrymore Sr. and Muhammad Ali.

Bernie and I met Leo Kingsley at Hollywood Station where he drove us to the murder scene. Leo was an African-American detective in his mid-fifties, with over thirty years on the job, and, as I recently found out, a PhD in psychology. He was a big man, with a shaved head, who had previously been assigned to the department’s cold case unit, anticipating his retirement in a few years. That all changed when Section One had recently worked with cold case on a homicide. That investigation had inspired Leo to take a more active assignment in the years before he turned in his badge. In some circles, my new partner was considered a legend; a hard-working detective who was tenacious and dedicated to his job.

I filled Leo in on what little I knew about the case as he drove, adding, “It sounds like a pretty gruesome scene. Oz thinks the press will be all over what happened.”

I’d seldom seen Leo without a smile, and tonight was no exception. “What would we do without the press?”

“I wonder what this does to our Potter investigation?”

Walter and Maggie Potter were the victims in our upcoming
Hollywood Detective
TV series. They’d been murdered while their nine-year-old daughter had been asleep in a nearby bedroom. Samantha had awoken the next morning to find her parents bludgeoned to death.

I’d been motivated to take the case because of Samantha’s personal plea for me to find her parents’ killer and because of her mother’s illness. I’d learned from the autopsy reports that Maggie Potter was suffering from terminal brain cancer at the time of her death and had less than six months to live. It was something that she’d kept from everyone, except her husband. Neither Samantha, nor her extended family, had been aware of her illness. The fact that Samantha’s mother had bravely carried on with her life, keeping her illness to herself, had touched me deeply. I was determined to find justice for her. 

“I got a feeling we’re gonna be pulling double-duty for a few weeks,” Leo said, referring to the fact that we’d be working both the Marsh and Potter cases at the same time. “I hope you enjoyed your time off.”

It was my turn to smile. “I can honestly say, it was one of the best weeks of my life.”

Leo nodded but otherwise didn’t respond. He knew I’d been dating Noah and was probably filling in some of the blanks on his own. My new partner also knew about my personal investigation into the murder of my love-dad and the possible involvement of Kellen Malone. As he drove, I took a couple of minutes, filling him in on what I’d learned from Collin Russell before we turned into the Hancock Park subdivision.

“The Revelation—really?”

“Really. I don’t know much about the group, but Russell made it sound like they control a lot of what goes on behind the scenes in Hollywood.

Leo parked up the block from where we saw the flashing lights from a couple of patrol cars, and said, “I did a little background work on Kellen Malone while you were on vacation. He’s apparently got a lot of influence behind the scenes and has made a fortune, but he stays in the background. Not sure about him being involved in a secret society.”

“I’m going to fill Oz in on everything and see how he wants to proceed. You’re welcome to sit in on the discussion, if you’d like.”

“Count me in.”

I got Bernie on his leash and we walked up the street. The night was damp and cool. I glanced down the road, now seeing the press had already arrived and was beginning to set up behind the police lines. As we got closer, I recognized one of the reporters as the woman Leo and I were supposed to work with on our upcoming TV show.

Shelia Woods worked for the
Sentinel Dispatch
and a cable news show called
Blast TV.
She’d been given special permission by our police chief, Bradley East, to work on the TV show with us. If I was a cynic, I might have thought Woods had been given the assignment because she looked like a supermodel and our big moose of a chief was smitten with her. Since I don’t consider myself a cynic, all I could do was assume Woods had won the LAPD lottery.

“Detectives,” Woods called over to us. “What can you tell me about what happened here?”

Since we were destined to work together, I stopped and said, “We just got the call, so there isn’t really anything we can tell you at this time.”

Woods came closer. Even though it was the middle of the night, her blonde hair and makeup were flawless. It also looked like she was wearing a designer outfit from one of those stores on Rodeo Boulevard that I felt guilty about even browsing in.

“The victim…” She looked at a notepad. “…Maria Chavez.” Her blue-gray eyes met me again. “I understand she was decapitated.”

I shrugged, giving nothing up. “Then you know as much as we do.” I started to walk away.

“Can we meet tomorrow morning on the Potter case? The production staff is ready to go.”

I stopped and dragged a hand through my messy hair, wondering why my brother, who is a hairdresser, couldn’t do something similar to the reporter’s luxurious coiffure. “We’ll talk to our lieutenant and let you know.”

When we walked away, I whispered to Leo. “Could you just shoot me now, Dr. Kingsley.”

He smiled. “You aren’t taking the easy way out.”

When we got to the residence, a sprawling white-washed Spanish colonial, we met up with Hall and Peters, who were talking to one of the patrol officers. Darby Hall, a middle-aged detective with dark hair and muddy brown eyes, asked the officer to repeat what he’d already told them for our benefit.

“The vic was the maid, Maria Chavez,” the youthful officer told us. “She was found in the kitchen by her sister. No head, lots of blood. The sister’s name is Paula Ramirez.” He motioned to a dark-haired woman who was with another officer. “She’s pretty torn up.”

“What about the family who lives here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “A Vincent and Allison Marsh, and their two kids. Gone missing. Ramirez says nobody was home when she got here. She can’t explain where they might have gone. The couple’s got two cars registered in their names: a BMW that’s missing, and a mini-van that’s in the garage.”

We thanked him and walked over to our victim’s sister. Since Melvina, or Mel as everyone called her, spoke Spanish, we waited while she introduced herself and had a brief conversation with Paula Ramirez.

After chatting with the distraught woman for a couple of minutes, Mel filled us in on what she’d learned. “She says her sister has worked with the Marsh family for a couple of years. She usually got off at ten and came straight home. Ramirez got worried when Maria didn’t answer her phone, and drove over here. The front door was cracked open, so she went inside. She positively identified the body as her sister by the tattoo of a cross on her arm.”

“Did she say anything about Maria’s relationship with the family?” Leo asked.

Mel brushed her hair out of her eyes. The detective was in her mid-thirties, attractive and slender. “She said as far as she knows it was good. The husband, Vincent, works for a law firm in downtown Los Angeles. The wife doesn’t work.” She glanced at her notes. “The kids are Jenna, age six, and Bobby, who is four. She said the girl has autism and doesn’t speak.”

I saw a van from the coroner’s office coming down the street. The department’s SID, or Scientific Investigation Division, was already here, unloading supplies. Unlike the TV version of a crime scene unit, SID staff were notorious for tampering with, or misplacing evidence. That was something I was determined not to let happen.

“Let’s get inside and take a look before everything gets trampled,” I said.

After gloving up, putting on paper booties, and moving past a uniform that was standing guard at the front door, we found the victim on the floor of the home’s expansive marble kitchen. Maybe it was the fact that the kitchen was white and all the lights were on, but the scene was as bad as anything I’d ever encountered.

In most homicides, the victim’s blood is pooled or confined to an area in fairly close proximity to the body. In the case of Maria Chavez, her blood looked like it had been sprayed around the room. I pushed down the bile rising in my throat, trying to come to terms with the horrific scene.

After examining the body for a couple of minutes, Leo said, “I’ve got a feeling she was placed on the kitchen island, where the sink is, and then…”

“Agreed,” Darby Hall said when Leo didn’t continue. “I think the decap was done there and her body was pushed onto the floor. The place looks like a fucking slaughterhouse.”

I now saw there was a lot of blood in proximity to the island that was in the center of the kitchen.

Hall’s partner, Mel, who was obviously also impacted by the gruesome scene, grimaced and said, “Did the responding officer see any signs…of the…head?”

Her partner answered, “Not from what I heard, but we’ll need to check the rest of the house.” Darby’s gaze wandered back over to the bloody kitchen island. “At least she didn’t suffer.”