Hollywood Assassin, A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

Hollywood exploded with the crack of gunfire.

I turned away from the smog-shrouded city of dreams that shimmered like a mirage beyond the shuttered windows of the Pinewood Apartments as Captain Marvin Drake unloaded his Glock-9 on Detective Jack Bautista. The detective wanted on a murder rap, tossed a bag of groceries, hopped a fence, and sprinted downhill through the gang-infested neighborhood.

I lunged at Drake, pushing his gun away. At the same time, my canine partner, Bernie, strained against his leash and began running toward the suspect, pulling me and my alabaster Gucci blouse through the dirt and grass.

When I got to my feet and released the dog, my blouse was ruined, the humidity had turned my hair into a frizz-fest, and Drake was screeching like a fat turkey that had swallowed a wasp. Bautista was already over the fence, disappearing faster than a necklace on a Lindsay Lohan shopping spree.

The big-bellied captain did a mad turkey trot toward me. With lots of attitude and bad breath right in my face, he shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Detective Sexton?”

I looked down into an angry face—his complexion more rosy than usual. Even the wattle of fat spilling out of his collar had turned red. I almost laughed as I watched his comb-over flapping in the breeze. “I was trying to save you from shooting an unarmed suspect in the back.”

“If I hadn’t acted, we’d both be dead!” he spat.

“Bautista was unarmed, walking down the sidewalk in broad daylight with a bag of groceries in his arms. Were you afraid he’d hit us with the pasta or the tomatoes?”

The turkey’s anger became a mad screech. “He was armed, Sexton. You just fucked the puppy.”

I was getting annoyed; impulse control was not one of my strong points. The elderly captain’s attitude and an October afternoon that was hotter than a pair of Justin Timberlake’s Fruit of the Looms were wearing on me.

“First of all,” I said, fixing my gaze on Drake, “the pooch’s name is Bernie; second, I don’t fuck dogs, and third you just made me ruin my $200 blouse.”

I walked away as the LAPD captain’s rant turned obscene. I seldom walk away from a fight. Maybe turning thirty this past year had mellowed me.