Hollywood murder mystery.., p.1
Hollywood Murder Mystery: Quint Adler Book #3, page 1
Hollywood Murder Mystery
Quint Adler Book #3
Brian O’Sullivan
Big B Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is merely coincidental.
HOLLYWOOD MURDER MYSTERY
Copyright @2021 Brian O’Sullivan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9992956-8-7
Published by Big B Publishing
San Francisco, CA
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission to the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of the book be photocopied for resale.
Created with Vellum
This novel is dedicated to all the novelists, screenwriters, actors, and directors who brought old-school Hollywood to life!
Contents
1. Saturday
2. Sunday
Chapter 3
4. Monday
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
8. Tuesday
Chapter 9
10. Wednesday
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
13. Thursday
Chapter 14
15. Friday
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
21. Saturday
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
25. Sunday
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Also by Brian O’Sullivan
About the Author
Chapter 1
Saturday
Like many people throughout our great country, Hollywood held an allure over me during my childhood. My parents were constantly playing the old movies of Humphrey Bogart, Grace Kelly, Jimmy Stewart, Bette Davis, and Cary Grant. They loved the romance and style of old-school Hollywood. I enjoyed that, but was more attracted to the seedy underbelly of movies like Double Indemnity, The Big Sleep, and Sunset Boulevard.
I’ve often wondered if those movies influenced my becoming a crime reporter and now a private investigator. Or, maybe it was that I always had a predilection for murder and malfeasance. It was the whole chicken vs. the egg debate all over again.
Whatever the case, private investigators with fedoras and femme fatales with murderous intentions had always held my interest. And that was merely on the silver screen.
Little did I know I’d be experiencing it first-hand in my inaugural case as a PI.
* * *
My life was easily separated into two distinct timeframes. The first forty years were great, but hardly the stuff of movies. And then, everything that occurred after landing in the hospital on the big 4-0 regarding Charles Zane and my “adventure” at sea. That agony was followed by the excruciating two months being in the scope of The Bay Area Butcher.
When that mercifully ended high atop the Golden Gate Bridge, I took a much needed (and deserved) break. My girlfriend Cara and I spent a week driving up and down the California Coast, checking into and out of a few hotels, but rarely leaving the room once we checked in. We’d spent a lot of time together in our search for the Butcher, but we hadn’t spent the type of alone time that any relationship calls for. We more than made up for it in the week that followed.
We avoided the news altogether, knowing the Butcher was going to lead every newscast for the foreseeable future. Which inevitably meant I’d be mentioned as well.
So we spent the week in our little bubble, intentionally oblivious to the outside world. A meteor could have struck earth and we wouldn’t have known.
* * *
We returned to the Bay Area reinvigorated and I started turning down all types of interviews. Believe me, there were many. Local, national, the BBC, Der Spiegel. In person, email, on the phone, through Zoom. They would do anything to accommodate me, but I wouldn’t budge.
I’d made that mistake after Charles Zane and wasn’t going to make it again.
I, Quint Adler, was no longer going to be a media whore.
Instead, my time was spent working towards acquiring my private investigator’s license. In most cases, you had to prove that you’d amassed over 6,000 hours (or three years) of investigative work while being employed by law enforcement, collection agencies, etc.
Although I fell short of the requirements, getting my license was a foregone conclusion. Saving twenty children from imminent death, while the police department was nowhere to be seen, ensured that.
I was being treated like a hero in the Bay Area. No one would dare say I wasn’t deserving. Quite the contrary. Many of the police officers I’d worked with put in a good word for me. And while I’d downplayed all the accolades heaped upon me, expediting this process was one perk that I gladly accepted. After all the carnage I’d prevented, I felt I deserved it.
So after a little over six months, I was proudly able to say I’d become a licensed PI in the state of California.
I was still friendly with Tom and Krissy Butler and everyone else at the Walnut Creek Times, but it appeared my career as a writer and reporter was over.
It had been a solid ten years, but I had to admit, I’d become addicted to the action. And being a private investigator was always going to be more interesting than sitting in a newsroom. Of that, there was no doubt.
To celebrate receiving my PI’s license, Cara and I drove down to Los Angeles. She was still teaching and we planned the trip during the beginning of April which coincided with her spring break. We could have flown, but we had come to enjoy our road trips together. So we made a two day trip down and spent the first night in beautiful Santa Barbara.
We arrived in Los Angeles the next day. And the goal was to spend the majority of the time either walking beneath palm trees or lying on the beach.
It didn’t quite turn out that way.
* * *
Connor Phillips was an old friend of mine. In the days before I started dating Cara, we were known to throw back a drink or five at Bay Area bars. We were young men then and we didn’t treat our bodies as temples. The opposite in fact. But we sure had fun together. And I’d always considered Connor a friend, despite not keeping in touch as often as we should have.
Was he over the top? For sure. A little arrogant? You could say that. Egotistical? Without doubt. But he’d also been a loyal friend, so I’d managed to overlook his personality flaws. And, in my defense, those traits hadn’t fully manifested themselves until Los Angeles got their claws in him.
He moved to LA a little over a decade ago. He’d tried acting when he was in the Bay Area, but obviously there were tons more opportunities in LA. So he moved south.
Ironically, his acting career didn’t take off, but he began producing B-level horror films almost immediately. On the rare times we talked, he always seemed to be doing well. He certainly wasn’t famous, but hey, being a producer in Hollywood can’t be all bad. Even if your movies have names like ‘The Texas Hacksaw Massacre’ and ‘Sunday the 15th: Two Days Later.’
To my surprise, I received a call from Connor on our second day in Los Angeles.
The first twenty-four hours had been perfect. It was early April, eighty-one degrees, and nary a cloud in the sky. We spent our first day on the beach. My early spring had been spent predominately indoors studying and my white skin stood out amongst the cyclists and rollerbladers on Venice Beach. I had some catching up to do.
Cara, whose skin had always tanned quicker than mine, was already showing color one day into our trip. I endured some good-natured teasing from her.
We were walking along the streets of Santa Monica when Connor called.
“Connor Phillips,” I said, making a big production of it.
“Quint Adler. How the hell are you?”
“I’m in your neck of the woods. But I’m guessing you already know that.”
“I sure do. Saw you post a picture on the beach yesterday. I was wondering if we could get a drink and catch up.”
“Of course,” I said. “We’re down near the beach in Santa Monica. You’re still working in Hollywood, right?”
“Hollywood adjacent.”
I laughed. We’d always found a way to fit adjacent into our conversations back in the day. I’d ask if he’d got lucky with a girl and he’d say “I got lucky adjacent.” It meant he hadn’t gotten lucky.
“Adjacent? I thought you’d be breaking bread with people like Bradley Cooper by now.”
“Not exactly. But I seem to remember a Cooper Bradley in our latest film.”
I laughed again. Connor had always been able to crack me up.
“When do you want to meet? Tonight?”
“That’
“What time?”
“Let’s say seven,” Connor said.
“I’ll be there. And I’ll be bringing Cara. You’ve met her.”
“It’s not like I haven’t been back to visit the Bay in the last ten years. Of course I remember Cara. Hard to forget her if we’re being honest.”
“Watch yourself, Phillips!” I joked.
We’d often used each other’s last names when kidding around.
I heard him laugh.
“See you at seven, my friend!”
* * *
Loews stood out as an exemplary hotel even among its prominent Santa Monica counterparts. We arrived early and walked around the grounds, taking in a fabulous pool, a fire pit, and more blondes than you could shake a stick at.
Which made the beautiful brunette on my arm even more special.
We’d arrived at BarBelle and were standing on a patio, enjoying breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean as the sun began to set.
“We should have stayed here,” Cara said.
I’d have been shocked if Loews was less than five or six hundred a night. A grand a night wouldn't have surprised me.
“Yeah, it would have been a great one day stay,” I said.
Cara nodded in agreement.
“So when was the last time you saw Connor?”
She was dressed in a light blue sundress. Usually it would be a summer outfit, but LA was plenty warm. She looked dazzling, but when did she not?
I was wearing some khakis and a lime green dress shirt on which I’d rolled up my sleeves. We may not have had the money of the majority of people surrounding us, but we looked sharp. There was no denying that.
“I was trying to think back,” I said. “It’s probably been three years. I’ve only seen him a handful of times since he moved. How many times have you met him?”
“Only twice, I believe. But it seems like more, because both times we met, it was an all-night drinking fest with you guys exchanging old stories.”
“That’s how we get.”
“Will tonight be any different?” she asked.
“Probably not,” I admitted.
And that’s when we saw Connor approaching us. He was dressed in beige linen pants and a white linen shirt. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the outfit, but producers in Hollywood probably wanted to look the part.
He was a few inches shorter than me, maybe hitting six feet on a good day. His blonde hair was slicked back. Part Pat Riley, part Gordon Gekko, but with lighter hair. He was within a year of my age, firmly in his early forties.
He tried to earn brownie points and approached Cara first.
“Cara, you look stunning. It’s great to see you again.”
“Same to you, Connor.”
They exchanged a light hug, followed by us exchanging a bearhug.
“How the fuck are you, you famous fuck,” Connor said, dropping two f-bombs right off the bat.
“Stop,” I said, only half-joking.
“Okay, I’ll give you credit. I didn’t see you give nearly as many interviews after the Bay Area Butcher.”
“Nearly as many? I gave zero.”
“See, that’s your mistake. I’d have been hamming it up for the camera.”
“I decided I don’t want to be famous.”
“You could be an actor in one of my horror movies. They never become famous.”
Cara and I laughed. Connor was an upbeat guy and fun to be around. As I’d admitted, he could be a bit much, so he worked best in small doses. Which was perfect, because this was a one-night thing.
He approached a maitre D and I saw him slip the guy a hundred dollar bill. A few minutes later we had the table with the best view of the Pacific. He may not have been Hollywood elite, but Connor tried hard to exude that vibe.
We took our seat and looked at the menu. Each speciality drink was $20 and had approximately nine ingredients. Connor took the lead and ordered three of them from a passing waitress.
“What ever happened to a Jack and Coke?” I asked. “Why does every drink in LA have a million ingredients?”
Cara took my cue.
“I’m sure that thyme sprig will push it over the edge,” she said.
Connor laughed.
“You guys are so hilarious. Stop hating on my adopted hometown.”
“I’ll tell you what though,” I said, looking out on the Pacific. “This, I could get used to.”
“Yeah, the Westside never gets old. I’m obviously a Hollywood guy, but whenever I come west of the 405, I break out in a smile. Hollywood can be a little grimy.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
“Can I be blunt, guys?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I want to get drunk with you guys tonight and have a great time. But I did have an ulterior motive for inviting you here.”
His voice had become serious and it was surprising coming from the usually jovial Connor.
“And what’s that?” Cara asked.
“Let me ask you a question first. Where are you guys staying?”
“A two or three star motel about five blocks from the ocean.”
“Not anymore. I’m going to book you a room at the Beverly Hilton for a week.”
While I should have been ecstatic, I was more suspicious than anything.
“Connor,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
“Well it has to do with that grimy side of Hollywood I mentioned.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing Connor had more to tell.
“I don’t know how else to say it, so I’ll just come out and say it,” Connor said, pausing for dramatic effect. He lowered his voice and leaned into us. “Somebody would prefer if I was out of the picture. And I don’t mean my next film.”
My first inclination was to laugh, but I held back when I realized Connor wasn’t joking.
“You’re serious?” I asked.
“As a heart attack,” Connor said. “Which, if I’m found dead sometime soon, will not be the cause of death.”
Cara and I looked at each other. We both knew our vacation wasn’t going to be the same from here on in. There was no way I could turn my back on Connor, even if we weren’t as tight as we’d once been.
“We’d love to help,” Cara said.
“No offense, Cara, but I need to hear it from Quint as well.”
“Of course I’ll help.” I responded.
Our nine-ingredient drink arrived, but no one touched it.
“I’ll have you guys come to West Hollywood tomorrow and I’ll lay everything out for you. I’ll be hiring you for one week. Quint, I saw your post about officially becoming a private investigator, and I’m assuming you haven’t had many cases?”
“Not a one. This vacation was celebrating me getting my license, before I started in earnest.”
“Well, how about 10k for a week’s work. Let’s start you off with a bang.”
“That’s too much money.”
“Not from my side. I value my life a lot more than that.”
It was hard to argue with Connor’s logic.
“It seems excessive, I said. “How about five grand? Which is still too much.”
“$7,500 it is. And don’t say no. If you save my life in the process, it will be the best money I’ve ever spent.”
“You have that kind of money?”
“The horror movies I make are like printing money. Low budgets and big audiences. People love to get scared out of their wits when they know it’s not actually real,” he added, probably alluding to his own situation.
I decided it was time to pounce.
