Hollywood Kids (18 page)

Quincy trailed behind Michael complaining all the way. 'Shit! We should wait until morning, maybe bring in the cops. Jeez, Mike, you shouldn't even be walkin' around. Why didja haven't come out here? My life was -'

'Will you shut up,' Michael interrupted, 'I gotta find out what's going on here. I wake up in the hospital after some phoney car accident, my fucking gun's been stolen, and this Daly bastard wanted me dead. Well, too bad, I survived. Tonight we're finding out the truth.' He sprung the lock on Daly Forrest's front door.

'Aw, great,' Quincy groaned. 'Now we're breakin' an' enterin'. Fuckin' great!'

They slipped inside the front hallway - a silent place with marble floors and mirrored walls. Michael stood for a moment, getting his bearings before moving stealthily down the corridor. Quincy followed, albeit reluctantly.

Michael was like a cat, he had the ability to see in the dark, and it didn't take him long to find the bedroom. The room was in darkness except for the glow of a television. A movie played, the sound turned low.

Two people lay in the bed - a man and a woman. Both appeared to be asleep.

For a long moment he stood silently in the doorway watching them. Then he hit the light switch and the shadowy room was illuminated.

The man was Daly Forrest.

The woman was his ex-wife, Rita.

They had both been shot in the head.

Mason Rich flew out from New York to be with Kennedy at her father's funeral. It was a small affair as most of her parents' friends had long passed away.

Nurse Linford sobbed openly when the casket was lowered into the ground. 'My father was very fond of you,' Kennedy said, trying to comfort her. 'He told me often.'

'I loved that man,' Nurse Linford replied, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'I know,' Kennedy said sadly. 'We'll all miss him.'

After the funeral, Mason insisted she accompany him to his hotel for a late lunch.

'I can't eat,' she said listlessly, as the waiter led them to a table.

'You can and you will,' he said firmly. 'But first you need a strong drink.'

She picked at a salad while he spoke about New York and mutual friends - all kinds of inconsequential stuff. 'You have to realize,' he said at last, 'that if your father was in pain he's better off where he is now.'

She sipped the vodka he'd made her order and stared at him. Mason had pointed features and a slick of smooth brown hair that some people thought was a rug. He dressed as if he was about to pose for a fashion spread in
G.Q
. There was no way she could ever find him attractive, but she was well aware he lusted after her, even though he was very much married. 'That's a cliche, Mason,' she said flatly.

'What else do you expect me to say at a time like this?'

'I don't know.' She paused for a moment before continuing. 'It's just that when your second parent dies it makes you painfully aware of your own mortality. If's quite frightening. I feel very alone.'

Mason signalled the waiter for another drink. 'Your father was old, and you have to remember he lived an interesting life. In many cultures if a person has lived a long and rewarding life, death becomes a celebration.'

'I know, it's just that I feel as if I'm next in line. It makes me vulnerable.'

'You're thirty-five years old, you're not going anywhere,' Mason said with a dry laugh.

'I guess not.' She gazed out the window, then glanced back at him. 'Thanks for coming out here.'

He pressed his hand over hers. That's what friends are for.'

Managing a wan smile, she said, 'Isn't that a song title?'

'At least I can make you smile,' he said, as the waiter brought him his drink - a second martini. 'Now here's my suggestion,' he said. Take a few weeks off, fly to Hawaii, lie in the sun and forget about everything.'

'You know that's not my style.'

'You have to mourn, K.C., it's a good thing.'

Shaking her head she said, 'No, what I have to do is keep working. In fact, I'd like to talk to you about my first story.'

'Didn't you mention the other day you were going to write about women in Hollywood?'

'I've changed my mind. I was thinking of writing about an ordinary woman who gets murdered outside her own home.'

'Somebody I've heard of?'

'No, and I'm not even sure if I'll write it, I have to investigate further. It's still violence against women, but why must we always focus on the high-profile side of it?'

'If celebrities aren't involved who's going to want to read it?'

'You'd be surprised.'

Drumming his fingers on the table he said, 'Since we're talking about work, can we discuss your Bobby Rush piece?'

What is there to discuss?'

'It's lightweight. You make him out to be too nice.'

'He is nice.'

'Maybe. But I need more juice. I thought you were planning on covering the father/son angle - stirring it up.'

'I thought you gave assurances we wouldn't touch that angle.'

Mason didn't care. 'Do a rewrite,' he said. 'Expose nepotism in Hollywood, the shallowness of fame, and let's hear who he's screwing.'

Kennedy controlled her anger. 'Get yourself another hack.'

'I'm not criticizing your writing,' Mason said quickly. 'It's a well-written piece, and I like the mistaken identity angle.'

'What
are
you saying?' she challenged. 'That you don't want to run it?'

'Juice it up, K.C.'

'I wrote Bobby Rush the way I saw him.'

'OK, OK, but don't soft-pedal your next celebrity assignment. I'm pretty certain we can get you Charlie Dollar.'

Her interest perked. 'Yes?'

'He's executive producer on his new movie so he's hot to promote. He doesn't usually do print, but a cover story on
Style Wars
will suit him fine.' He snapped his fingers for the cheque, 'I have a plane to catch. You sure you're all right?'

'I'm certain, Mason. And once again, I really appreciate you flying out here, it means a lot to me.'

'Any time, K.C., you know you're my favourite,' he said, planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

Rosa, who'd had to run back to the TV studio after the funeral, appeared at her apartment in the early evening. 'I'm spending the night,' she announced, dumping a huge Fendi travel bag in the hall.

'No, you're not,' Kennedy said firmly.

'Yes, I am,' Rosa replied, equally firm. 'We'll talk, we'll eat, we'll have a girls' night in.'

'You're useless at girls' nights in. If there isn't a guy around you fall asleep.'

Rosa looked at her with a hurt expression. 'You're in a crisis and I'm here for you. That's what friends are for.'

'Jesus!' Kennedy exclaimed, rolling her eyes. 'What
is
it with that corny song!'

As it happened, she was pleased Rosa was there, because she didn't relish being alone. They settled in the small kitchen, sent out for Chinese food and sat around talking all night, covering most subjects, although whenever possible Rosa tried to steer the conversation in the direction of Ferdy.

'I mean, am I crazy or what?' Rosa asked, chewing on a spare-rib. 'He's younger than me, the wrong colour, and yet I feel we have a great future together.'

'You say that about every guy you've ever slept with.'

'Maybe it's because I believe it.'

'Keep on believing it and I'll
know
you're crazy.'

Rosa shrugged, licking her fingers. 'I'm not sure what I want a guy for anyway. Sometimes I think it's just for fantastic sex, because if I was truthful I certainly have no desire to marry them and have their babies.'

'You're sure about that?'

'I tried marriage twice, it didn't work either time. I'm not the maternal type, my career is too important. Anyway, where is it written you have to want kids?'

'I hear what you're saying,' Kennedy agreed, although if Phil hadn't died she would have loved to have had children, lots of them, and still pursued a career. It
was
possible.

The thing is,' Rosa mused, 'that Ferdy wants babies. It's kind of a male pride trip.'

Kennedy got up and began clearing the dishes. 'Are you
planning
on marrying him?'

'No.'

'Then what's the problem?'

Rosa jumped up. 'That's why I like you, Kennedy. You always make me feel better about things.'

In the morning Rosa was in a rush. She commandeered the bathroom while applying a perfect make-up, then she made six urgent phone calls before dashing from the apartment. 'I'll call you later,' she said, waving as she hurried to her car. 'Catch me on the six o'clock news, and take a look at the latest weather guy, I hear he's available.'

What a matchmaker! The last thing Kennedy needed was a man. She needed space and time. She needed to throw herself into her work.

With that in mind she went to the library and read everything she could about the woman's murder in Agoura Hills. Her father was right - why focus on high-profile Hollywood when there were stories taking place every day that affected people in a far more immediate way.

A woman had died violently and she couldn't find much coverage - only two newspaper reports. The first featured a dramatic headline:

WOMAN SLAIN OUTSIDE OWN HOME

She scanned the story:

Margarita Lynda, 37, was found strangled to death next to her car outside her house early this morning. There was no apparent robbery attempt, and rape is not suspected. A passerby spotted the body at 7.40 a.m. and summoned deputies. Lynda, an Agoura Hills resident, was separated from her husband and had no children. She was a film make-up artist who had recently completed work on a Grant Lennon movie. Sheriff's officials are investigating.

The second story was even briefer.

Hmm
... Kennedy thought, not much to go on. But her journalistic mind was in action. Why had this woman been murdered? What was the movie?

It was her destiny to find out. She owed it to the memory of her father.

The Man trailed his soon-to-be victim all day long. It gave him a perverse thrill knowing that he could follow her every move without her realizing.

He knew his victim. He knew plenty about her.

Fact one. She was a lesbian.

Fact two. She lived with her mother.

Fact three. She had two cats and a small dog.

His victim spent a busy day. First there was a trip to the dry cleaners, the photographic shop, a stop at the shoe repairers, lunch with a friend, and then a movie. It was not a film The Man was interested in, it was a foolish love story. But he sat in the theatre anyway - two seats behind his victim, who was not alone. She was with her friend from lunch, a younger woman in a yellow sweater and loose slacks.

Perverts, The Man thought to himself. He'd never understood how one woman could be attracted to another. It simply wasn't right.

After the movie the two companions shared a coffee and then went their separate ways.

The Man followed his victim home. He thought about taking her then and there before she entered her house, but it was still light out, and he didn't want to run any risks. He had no intention of getting caught. There was no way he could ever go back to jail again.

He waited in his car, parked in a spot where nobody would notice. He waited patiently knowing that at nine o'clock his victim would emerge and walk her dog as she did every night.

Sure enough this event occurred.

The Man left his car and fell into step behind her as she walked along the quiet side-street in West Hollywood. After a few moments the victim sensed she was being followed and glanced behind her.

The Man did not hesitate, he approached boldly. 'Do you have the time?' he asked politely.

She looked at him, a puzzled expression crossing her face. 'Don't I know-?'

The Man nodded. 'Yes, you know me,' he said, not allowing her to finish her sentence.

With one massive blow he knocked her to the ground, taking her by surprise. She fell silently. Her small dog began to bark and growl. He gave it a vicious kick and it scampered off down the street whimpering.

The Man squatted next to his victim, placing his hands around her throat and slowly and methodically began to squeeze.

She struggled once, her body twitching uncontrollably, and then it was over.

There was one thing left to do. The Man reached into his inner pocket producing a thin strip of cardboard on which he had pasted -with letters cut from newspapers - the words
DEATH TO THE TRAITORS.
He placed it neatly across her chest, took one last look around and returned to his car
.

Then he drove off, humming softly to himself.

Victim number two disposed of. Four more to go.

He was a master of the game.

Living with Charlie Dollar was quite a trip. He was totally undemanding, not at all possessive, and didn't care how much of a mess she made. The only drag was his stern housekeeper, who eyed her like she was about to commit arson on a daily basis.

'Ignore the old witch,' Charlie said with one of his crazed chuckles. 'She's been with me fifteen years. Princess Di could move in and she wouldn't approve.'

'But she watches me, Charlie, like I'm about to
steal
something.'

'Are you?'

Jordanna stuck out her tongue and wiggled it at him. 'Fuck you, asshole.'

'Anybody ever told you you got a mouth like a truck driver?'

She grinned. 'Yeah, frequently.'

'So clean up your dialogue, kiddo,' he said good-naturedly. 'It ain't ladylike.'

One thing about their relationship - they were compatible, even if he
was
nearly thirty years older than her. Jordanna genuinely enjoyed his company, he was certainly more fun to be with than some Midnight Cowboy with a tight ass and empty brain, and God knew she'd had enough of them to last two lifetimes. She didn't know much about his past love life and she really didn't care. The word was that he'd been living with an actress up until a few months ago, and they had a three-year-old child together that he saw occasionally. Questioning wasn't her style. If Charlie wanted to tell her anything he would. As it was she felt they were a couple, and it was a nice secure feeling.