James Conway - In Cold Blonde

I honestly don’t know, Ryan thought. “No,” he said and then got back to business. “Tell me the news.”

“I just spoke to the lawyer, Chris Reade. There was a rumored date rape incident involving Colin Wood in high school. In fact a few boys might have been involved. Reade knew the lawyer that handled the case, a man named Zachary Stone.”

“Did you get a number, can we talk to him?”

“No, and that’s the good part. For us, not him. He’s dead. Shot to death in Newport Beach on Sunday.”

“The day before Colin Wood’s murder,” Ryan said, excited.

“We’ve got a conference call scheduled with Newport Beach Homicide in fifteen minutes.”

Technically there were no private beaches in Malibu, much to the chagrin of the rich beach house owners. The courts ruled that the public had a right to build sandcastles wherever they wanted. But for all intents and purposes, many of the beaches were rendered private by the lack of public parking. And the closest public parking to Carbon Beach was miles away.

So Alice had to figure out a way to get close to Blake Hunter. There was plenty of information about Blake online. His company, BHPIX, was one of the largest suppliers of paparazzi photos in the world. There was a profile published in L.A. Magazine that talked about his statutory rape conviction, which didn’t surprise Alice at all. The fact that when Blake got out of jail and actually dated the victim, who had finally turned eighteen, did. The relationship didn’t last but it certainly made Blake infamous.

According to all her online research, Blake worked from home and though he often went out, there was no schedule, no rhyme or reason to his comings and goings.

And Alice knew there was a clock on her now. She checked the news when she got up this morning. There was a story about the lucky homicide detective who won the lottery and is investigating the Colin Wood murder, but there was still no report of a dead body at the Bel Air Regent. The old lady should have come down to the desk fifteen minutes after the Lady in Red had left the hotel looking for a way to retrieve her dog. What happened? Did the old lady die? Not likely. Did they find the body and decide to keep it quiet? No, the cops didn’t work that way. Alice knew there were security cameras all over the hotel and the cops would use them to get video of her. And they would want that video on television as soon as possible hoping someone would see her and turn her in.

So what? Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Alice accepted the extra time gratefully.

Now her research did mention that Blake liked to go for a run every morning, a three mile jog up and down the beach. Since she couldn’t park nearby, Alice rented a kayak at Paradise Beach and paddled two miles to a spot about one hundred yards off shore of Blake’s house. Then she waited.

Blake, meanwhile, had sent the hookers home and was now hard at work. He’d converted one of his bedrooms into an office. It had a full on ocean view. A huge desk sat in the middle of the room dominated by a 27-inch iMac. This is where Blake worked and did his photo editing. A 42-inch flat screen TV hung on the wall across from the desk. Two bookcases flanked the TV filled with a mixture of books and DVD’s. Another wall was filled with photos, shots of celebrities that had helped make BHPIX so successful: Lara snorting coke in a nightclub bathroom; Britney climbing out of a car sans panties and flashing the world; Tara, drunk, throwing up on the sidewalk.

Blake had no guilt about what he did for a living. Stars needed publicity to pimp their movies and TV shows. And most of the celebs who adorned the Enquirer, Star, People, and US were people who asked for it. Everyone knows the paparazzi hang out at certain restaurants; if you don’t want to be mobbed, don’t go to the fucking restaurant. Eat somewhere else! Yet the twits continue to go to the Ivy, to Skybar, to Morton’s and act annoyed when the paparazzi descend.

And yes, some photographers went too far. Blake didn’t really condone extreme behavior publicly, but he paid his people huge bonuses for those priceless snaps and never asked how they got them.

Blake checked his email and then turned to look out the picture window. It was a beautiful spring day, temperature in the low sixties, a calm sea. He checked his watch. He had a meeting in about an hour, but he still had time for a run.

Blake noticed a girl in a red bikini kayaking nearby as he jogged down the beach but didn’t pay too much attention. He was jogging away from her so couldn’t see her for long. But after he turned around and was jogging back up the beach, he saw plenty of her. Kind of hot, he thought, but she was too far away to be sure.

She seemed to be having trouble paddling and then as he got closer, the kayak suddenly flipped and she disappeared under water. Kayaks are supposed to flip back over but this one didn’t. And moments later the girl popped to the surface, arms flailing, obviously in distress.

Blake kicked off his sneakers and dove in. He was a good swimmer and a few powerful strokes quickly brought him to her. Her eyes were panicked, wild. She must’ve swallowed a mouthful of water when she flipped over, because she was coughing, having trouble breathing.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Blake said, wrapping an arm around her. “Stay calm and I’ll get you to shore.” The woman obeyed, relaxed, and Blake paddled.

When they got to shore, the women bent over coughing as Blake’s retrieved his shoes. When he came back, the woman stood up and he got his first real good look at her.

She was blonde, with green eyes, great tits and incredible legs. The ocean was cold, goose bumps covered her body and she was shivering. “You saved my life,” she said.

“But it looks like you’re about to freeze to death. I live right there,” he said pointing at his house. “Come inside and let me get you warmed up.”

She dazzled him with a smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Newport Beach was only fifty miles from Hollywood, but in heavy traffic it could take over two hours to get there, so when time was an issue and the LAPD had to interface with an Orange County law enforcement agency on a murder investigation, they used the phone, fax and internet. Newport Beach PD faxed the initial crime scene report to Hollywood, and the Medical Examiner’s Office would email their report later in the day.

Ryan, Syd and Lieutenant Hanrahan were on a speakerphone in the conference room. Ramirez was patched in from his office at SID and the lead detective from Newport Beach, Alex Cortez, was on the phone in his Captain’s office. “His body was found at a little after 7:00 p.m. by a storekeeper taking out the trash,” Cortez said. “Shot once in the face. The Medical Examiner put the time of death between 6:00 p.m. and when he was found.”

“Was there any mutilation of the body?” Ryan asked.

“What kind of mutilation?”

“A missing or rearranged body part?”

“No. But you’ve sure got my attention.”

Ryan and Syd exchanged disappointed looks. “Was there anything carved onto his body?”

Cortez laughed. “No. Man, you must have some freak up there.”

“Maybe it’s not her,” Hanrahan said to Ryan and Syd.

Ramirez asked, “What caliber bullet was he shot with?”

“.25”

“Same here,” Ramirez said. “I think your SID and I need to compare our lands and grooves.”

“I’m hoping they match.” Ryan said. “Detective Cortez, were there any reports of a beautiful blonde in the area.”

“Hey, this is the OC, man, we got beautiful blondes all over the place,” Cortez said, and then remembered something. “But Stone’s last client of the day was blonde. His assistant told us she was very attractive.”