Hollywood Murder (31 page)

“We need units to respond to Henry Montreal’s residence, Code three,” I said over the radio as Leo raced toward his Trousdale estate. “We have reason to believe his daughter, Karen Dodd, is armed and dangerous.”

When I’d finished the radio call, Leo said, “From what Allison said, her sister is determined to take revenge on their father. And I have a feeling we’re running out of time.”

I knew the distance from Hancock Park to Beverly Hills was about five miles. As usual, the traffic was heavy, and, even though Leo used his red lights, we got bogged down at one of the intersections. Bernie was in the back seat, on alert and sensing something big was happening.

My partner went on as we waited for traffic to move through the intersection. “The way I figure it, Karen Dodd has had a lifetime of pent-up anger brewing toward her father. This might not end well.”

We finally cleared the intersection. “Then let’s get there before it’s over.”

After nearly getting T-boned in another intersection, Leo and I made it to the Montreals’ residence in less than ten minutes. The gate to the estate was closed, so Leo rammed into it, knocking it down. I was getting Bernie from the backseat when a black and white pulled up behind us.

“Let’s move out,” I said to the uniforms after briefly explaining what we knew and making sure I had a firm grip on Bernie’s leash. Leo and I began moving toward the front door with the other officers. We had our guns drawn as I stepped onto the front porch and said, “We need to be prepared…”

My words were cut off, and we all hit the ground, as one of the officers yelled, “Shots fired!”

“I want this wrapped up by the weekend,” Henry Montreal said. The wealthy financier was on the phone in his study with his chief financial officer. “And, I want the penalties we talked about imposed for any non-performance.”

“That’s going to be a problem. The Seaport group knows that construction projects often don’t meet the deadlines. They’re not going to agree…”

“Listen to me.” Henry was aware of movement outside his door, but the task at hand was more important. “The penalties stay in the contract or we don’t have a deal. This is put-up or shut-up, and I’m not going to be the one who puts-up.” He slammed the phone down, at the same time glancing over at the woman who was now standing in his doorway.

“You.” Henry’s eyes fixed on the gun in his daughter’s hand.

“Me,” Karen Dodd said, smiling. “How have you been, Daddy?”

“What do you want?”

“Just some answers.”

“I don’t have any…” He released a breath and shook his head. “I get it. You want money.”

Karen laughed, “That is so you, Daddy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The smile on Karen’s lips slipped away. She walked over to her father until she was just a couple of feet away from him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

Karen brought the gun up, aiming it at the man she despised. “All these years have gone by and I haven’t seen you since I was a little girl. Why?”

Despite his best effort, Henry realized his voice was wavering. “You…you don’t understand. It was Georgette. She couldn’t accept…what I did.”

The rage in Karen exploded. She brought the gun down, smashing it against her father’s head. “You fucking coward.”

“It’s true. Georgette was the one who…”

“This had nothing to do with your wife. It had everything to do with you being a selfish, uncaring, controlling bastard who would have nothing to do with the child he brought into this world.”

Blood gushed from Henry’s head. “No, please…you don’t understand.”

Karen brought the gun up again, this time pointing it between her father’s eyes. “Just so you know, Daddy. It was me. I was the one behind Allison’s kidnapping. I also have your ten million dollars.”

“What are you saying?”

Henry Montreal saw his daughter’s finger tense on the trigger of her gun. “I’m saying that, I win.”

“Police,” I yelled as Bernie and I made our entrance through the front door. “Drop the weapon, Karen. You need to come out now.”

There was no response.

“Only one shot,” Leo said. “That means we still have an active shooter.”

Bernie and I made our way down a hallway. I stopped, hearing the high-pitched distraught voice of a woman. “You can’t come into my house.”

“Police,” I yelled again.

There were two voices now, one louder than the other. I had Bernie’s leash in one hand, my weapon in the other, as we continued down the hallway. Seconds later there was another gunshot coming from what I realized must be an office. I called out again. Silence.

We stopped a few feet from the doorway. I held Bernie back, not wanting to let him go into a room under unknown circumstances. Leo moved ahead of us with the uniforms. At the same time a third shot rang out.

They hesitated, calling out again without any response. They moved ahead until they were at the doorway. I watched as they relaxed and holstered their weapons.

I moved up to the doorway with Bernie. The scene in front of me removed all the air from my lungs for a moment. I felt light-headed and dizzy as I took in the scene.

Henry Montreal was slumped over his desk. He’d been shot through the head. His wife was on the floor, bleeding from what I was sure was a fatal wound to her chest. Georgette Montreal was still holding a gun in her hand that she’d probably used to confront her stepdaughter.

My gaze went over and held on the daughter that Henry Montreal had never known. Karen Dodd was slumped against a wall with a gunshot wound to her head. It was clear to me that she’d shot her father and his wife, before turning her gun on herself. But there was something else about the scene that took me a long time to process.

I holstered my weapon and bent down to the beautiful young woman who lay dead in front of me. I knew it was a futile, maybe even a silly act, but I found a tissue and blotted her eyes.

Karen Dodd’s final act in this life had been to express the sorrow that she’d felt for the father she’d never known. Despite what she’d done, there was something heartbreaking about her lifeless eyes that stared into the void. They were filled with tears.

I spent the rest of the day, and most of the next, processing the murder-suicide scene at the Montreal residence and writing reports. After learning of her sister’s death, Allison Marsh had waived her rights and admitted her crimes. She and her sister had spent months planning the crime in order to, in her words, “Get back at the monster who had been our father.”

After her confession, Allison had been booked into jail on multiple counts of murder and conspiracy. It was likely she would be facing the death penalty for her crimes, which in California meant that she’d die in jail while her case went through years of appeals.

While her crimes had, in effect, left Allison’s children orphans, an aunt had stepped forward and taken custody of both Jenna and Bobby. She seemed like a compassionate, loving woman, who I could only pray would offer them the life they deserved. The one thing I did know for sure was that they would never lack for financial resources because they were destined to eventually inherit the Montreal fortune.

When Bernie and I got home, I spent some time alone thinking about the crimes and how a shattered family life had set everything in motion. My thoughts eventually drifted to my own family and my relationship with my sisters.

Amanda and I weren’t close and seldom even talked. Despite that estrangement, I promised myself to try and do better. While we had little in common, I decided that I had nothing to lose by reaching out to her and trying to find some common ground. I even hoped that my mother’s upcoming family reunion would help with that process.

My thoughts then went to my other sister. It had been weeks since Lindsay had been taken in by The Swarm. I remembered the far-away look in her eyes as she’d boarded a helicopter and had willingly flown away with the group of killers.

I found myself picking up my phone and calling Joe Dawson, the FBI agent who had worked with me on the killing spree that led to Lindsay being taken. He must have seen the call was from me because when he answered, his greeting was familiar.

“Hey, Buttercup. How are things in La-La Land?”

“It’s just another week of murder and mayhem here in paradise. How are you, Joe?”

“’Bout right, for a man of my age and condition. Still getting younger and smarter every day.”

I chuckled and got to the reason for my call. I held my breath and said, “Lindsay. Have you heard anything?”

The lightness in his voice was gone when he answered. “Talked to Greer a couple of days ago. We took down a guy with some ties to the group, but, so far, he isn’t saying much. I got the impression your sister and the others are still underground, maybe planning something. I wish I had something more to tell you.”

“It’s okay. I…I just wanted to be sure to stay in touch if…when something breaks.”

“I’ve got you on speed dial.” There was a pause before he went on. “You sure you’re okay, Kate?”

“I’m fine.” My thoughts then went to Noah. Joe and I had become good friends, sharing almost everything about our lives. I decided he needed to know about him. “I met someone, Joe. I think we’re good together.”

After another pause he said, “I’m not sure I’m happy for him, but I’m thrilled for you. I just hope…” He took a breath. “Make sure he’s the one is all I’m saying. We’ve both had our share of false starts.”

“I will. Stay in touch, Joe.”

After ending the call, I poured myself a glass of wine and tried to put everything out of my mind. I was watching an idiotic reality show about a couple who were supposed to do ballroom dancing in the nude when there was a knock on my door.

When I answered it, I found Natalie standing there with Mo. They looked like they’d just crawled out of a grave and, all at once, everything came back to me. The fashion show. The zombie theme. Sistah Slam. Our rap song.

“We’re gonna be late,” Natalie said. “You can change in the car.”

They were pulling me through the doorway when I said, “What about Bernie?”

“Izzy can watch him. He’s packing up our apartment for the move.”

A wave of depression hit me when I thought about having to move in a few days. I hadn’t packed anything.

After dropping Bernie off at their apartment and getting Izzy’s promise that he wouldn’t turn him into a goat, we made the trip to the West Hollywood Arts Center in record time. I changed, putting on a dress that had more holes than material, while Natalie teased my hair. I was then pushed, no, make that dragged, onto stage with my friends and the oldest zombie on planet earth.

Before our performance began, Nana came over to me and whispered, “You ruin this performance and I’ll see to it you’re six feet under with a stake in your heart.”

I guessed that she meant business. I took a breath and looked out at the crowd. There were probably a couple hundred people in the audience, no doubt anticipating us making complete fools of ourselves.

Then I noticed Archibald Griswald. The rapper was in the front row, mouthing words of encouragement to me, or maybe it was more of a threat. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn he was saying, “Don’t mess this up, or else.”

Then the music began and we broke into a ridiculous dance, something that probably should have been called
The Walking Dead Waltz.
I put my arms out and did a stiff-legged walk around the stage with my friends and Nana as they delivered the goofy rap song that described all the crazy things zombies do.

Then it was my turn. Archibald mouthed the words with me as I broke into the zombie hip-hop lines he’d created just for me.

“People always ask me, how you stay so thin?

You got some se-cret, why people call you Slim?

All I gotta say is, I don’t want no ri-ot

I got a big fat secret, it’s all in my di-et.

I am a zombie, no drug in my veins,

I am skinny, ’cause I eat people’s brains.”

When it was finally, mercifully over, I came off stage with my friends in a state of abject humiliation. My head was slumped down as Nana took me by the arm and turned me to face her. “Your song sucked. I’ve seen dead people rap better than you.”

“I think it was a marvelous performance.”

The woman’s voice had come from behind me. It sounded familiar, but, at first, I couldn’t place it. I turned around and realized Shelia Woods was standing there with her camera crew.

The reporter went on, “My crew recorded the entire performance. I think it will make a marvelous segment for
Hollywood Detective.
I can’t wait until all your coworkers see it.”

I had the next few days off, which was a good thing. I spent some of that time with Noah, trying to forget my rap performance. I’d almost gotten over it when the TV station airing
Hollywood Detective
began showing promo spots for the show, including snippets of my zombie rap-dance. I hid out in my apartment after that, spending the time packing up a few things for my move and contemplating joining a zombie relocation program. Maybe Bernie and I could be relocated to an island for the walking dead where they hadn’t invented television.

The only positive outcome of my humiliating performance was that it raised part of the funds that I’d promised Samantha Potter she could use to visit the grandmother in England she’d never seen. The production company for my upcoming TV show had agreed to match my contribution, probably as a good-will gesture on their part to entice viewers. Whatever the rationale, at least it meant that Sam would get a chance to see the grandmother she’d never known.

When my last day off work came around, I put everything out of my mind, and went to Chanteclair, where I had lunch with Laura Trenton. As Bernie soaked up some sun on her patio, we ate and chatted about our childhoods, Laura telling me that after her aunt died she hadn’t come back to Chanteclair in over a decade.

“I lived in Portland with my parents as a child, but I missed spending summers here after Aunt Jean was gone. This place is so…magical.” Her gaze moved off, taking in the beautiful grounds, before coming back to me. “It’s very special to me, probably because of my aunt. Despite what you might have seen about her life in the movies and on TV, she was a sweet person who always tried to do her best by other people.”

“I can tell she was very exceptional by the way you remember her.”

“What about you? It must have been very difficult after your father died.”

I forced a smile. “It was.” I took a moment, thinking about my childhood, and added, “I think his death has continued to impact me in ways that I’m still coming to grips with.” I felt the heaviness in my eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever really have closure until I find the man who ordered his murder.”

After saying that she understood my feelings, Laura stood up and said, “I have some of my aunt’s old photographs in some boxes in the bedroom. Let’s go take a look.”

We spent the next hour rummaging through her aunt’s photos. Seeing the pictures was like taking a journey back in time to another era when Hollywood reigned supreme and the stars were bigger than life. Jean Winslow had surrounded herself with the elite of that era, everyone from producers such as Donald Regis, to famous directors.

I then came across a photograph that caught my interest. It was a picture of Jean Winslow standing in front of the Platinum Theater. It looked like it was taken in the early days of her career.

I showed the photo to Laura, remembering my conversation with Robin’s new boyfriend. Adam had said the lines in the script he’d been working on had been changed to include a reference to the Platinum Theater. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but I couldn’t dismiss the thought that the venue might have some ties to the Revelation. “Do you remember anything about this photograph?”

She studied it for a moment before handing it back. “I think it might have been where Aunt Jean’s first movie premiered. It was a popular place in the old days. I’m not sure it’s still in business.”

I set the photo aside, remembering what I’d read about the theater on the Internet. “The building is still there, but the theater is closed now.”

We moved on, looking through the other boxes. After we’d sifted through the final snapshots, I was disappointed. We hadn’t come across any photographs of my love-dad.

After she’d set the boxes aside, Laura’s face lit up. “I almost forgot. My aunt had a room…” She giggled. “Maybe it was more of an escape. It’s behind a secret wall in her bedroom. I haven’t been in there since I was a kid, but if you’d like, we can take a look.”

“A secret passageway in the bedroom of one of the most famous stars in Hollywood history. Who could resist that?”

I followed her to the main house, where we spent a few minutes walking through a few of the lavish rooms in the massive residence before we came to Jean Winslow’s bedroom.

“I suppose this is considered somewhat ordinary by the standards of today’s stars,” Laura said, after opening the door.

I couldn’t argue with her. The room was modestly furnished with a double bed, polished brass lamps, and a dark wood dresser. There was a small writing desk with a makeup mirror over it in one corner. French doors opened from the bedroom to a small courtyard with a fountain.

“A simpler era,” I said, looking around the room and agreed with her.

She went over to a wall next to the desk and felt around. “If I remember, there’s a lever or something…” She continued to work her fingers around the edges of the wall. After a moment, she said, “I’m not finding anything.”

Bernie turned his head from side to side, watching as I went over and joined her. The wall appeared to be part of the main structure of the building until I came to a corner where it gave way. I pushed harder and the entire wall shifted. It opened up to a room that was about the size of a large walk-in closet. I found a small Maglite in my purse, clicked it on, and Laura followed me inside.

“This must be where your aunt kept her clothing and other personal belongings,” I said. “But it looks like someone went through everything.” The hangers were mostly empty, with just a couple of scarves and a belt.

“Her manager probably cleaned everything out,” Laura said. “I know he sold everything he could get his hands on. He even tried to claim Jean’s will was invalid and tried to take Chanteclair away from me, but I eventually won the court case.”

There were stacks of old newspapers and a few books in the corner of the room, but otherwise it looked like there was nothing worthwhile. I heard Jean calling to me and turned around. She held up a binder. “This looks like an old photo album.”

We left the secret room and carried the album over to the bed where Laura blew the dust off the cover and opened it. I gave her a moment so she could go through the photos on her own, knowing it was like opening a time capsule to the past.

“These look like they were taken just before…” She brushed a tear and looked at me. “I think most of these were around the time of Aunt Jean’s thirtieth birthday. She died a few weeks later.”

I looked over her shoulder, seeing there were several snapshots taken around the estate’s swimming pool. There were even a couple of stars I recognized that I pointed out.

My eyes held on one of the final photographs. I cleared my throat. “I think…” I felt my emotions surfacing, my eyes misting over. “…it’s my dad.”

“Johnny,” Laura said, examining the photograph, then looking at me. “I remember him like it was yesterday.”

My love-dad was standing with a group of people behind Jean Winslow and a man I recognized as Donald Regis. I scanned the other faces in the photograph and my heart began racing. “Oh, God.”

“What is it?”

I took a breath, pointing to a smiling man who was standing near my love-dad. “That’s Ryan Cooper. He’s…he’s the man who shot my dad.”

Jean touched my arm. “Goodness. I’m so sorry.”

I brushed away a tear. “It’s okay. I took in the other people surrounding my father before I realized I was looking at a very young, very handsome Kellen Malone. I pointed him out to Laura. “This only confirms what I thought I knew. Malone and Cooper were…” I stopped in mid-sentence, my eyes holding on someone else that I now recognized. “I don’t believe this.”

“What is it?”

I took a long moment before answering her. The man’s hair had been much darker thirty years ago, but his eyes left me with no doubt about who I was looking at. They were the color of tropical water, clear and bright.

“Kate?”

I pointed out the man. “Do you know him?

She shook her head. “No.” She looked at me. “Who is he?”

I released a breath, at the same time trying to make some sense of what I was seeing. “I work with him. He’s my lieutenant, Ozzie Powell.”

THE END