Blood Money

By John Leslie Evans

Los Angeles Police Department
homicide detectives, Joe Kellermann and his partner, Mike Rodriguez, are drawn
into a baffling case, when top Hollywood television producer, Jonathan Barry
vanishes without a trace. As the story
unfolds, the detectives soon become enmeshed in a web of lust, passion,
betrayal and murder-for-hire. Evidence
soon leads to nightclub owner, Tony Caruso, who is the alleged connection
between the two hired killers and Barrys wife, Diane.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Police are shocked when Caruso himself is found
dead in his Hollywood Hills home. Was
it suicide or homicide? This is a story
of violence, blackmail and murder. A
taut, fast-moving tale that probes the sordid and seamy comers of the City of
Angels--a city on the dark side of the sun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410771049

John Leslie Evans

John Leslie Evans, born in Corsham, England and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, Canada, presently lives in Brea, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. His first published novel, “Prescription: Murder,” was adapted from a screenplay by the same name. This was followed by “Eyes of a Killer,” the story of a predatory woman who lures a rogue cop into a complex web of murder and deception, and “Dead of Night,” the story of a woman’s obsession with money…power…prestige. “A Question of Murder” concerns the alleged murder-suicide of tabloid-publisher, Randall Curtiss and his wife, in their palatial Hollywood Hills mansion. In “A Deadly Affair,” the ultimate fatal attraction leads to murder, when Dr. Joel Steiner is found shot to death on his luxurious Marina del Rey yacht.

Book preview

BLOOD MONEY

A Novel by

John Leslie Evans

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2003 by John Leslie Evans. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 9781410771049 (e-book)

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER ONE

Marina del Rey, Calif. Monday, November 8, 1999. Dusk. The sun still riding a couple of hours above the horizon. A huge, golden sphere. The sky, a brilliant magenta, shot with shades of vermilion. The sunlight danced on the water like glittering diamonds. An oil tanker headed for Maracaibo, or some other exotic South American port, was silhouetted against the fiery sky. P.I. Sid Kravitz was fat to the point of being obese. With barely two inches between his gut and the steering wheel, he sat inside his metallic-gray ‘97 T-Bird, peering down at the Marina below him. He wasn’t particularly awed by the ravishing California sunset. Instead, his eyes were riveted on a gleaming, white, seventy-foot-long yacht. The Miramar was immaculate; its white hull, teakwood decks and polished brass fittings seemed to sparkle in the fading, rose-colored light. Perhaps it was the fading light that caused Kravitz to pull a large white handkerchief from inside his breast pocket, and wipe the rivulet of sweat that slid down his cheek. After all—time was of the essence. His large, fleshy hand reached for a Rolleiflex camera that lay on the seat beside him. Sucking in his breath, and summoning his strength, he slid out of the car in a slow, awkward motion, and once again peered down at the Mir amar.

The Rolleiflex, which was equipped with a telephoto lens, suddenly began to click Kravitz’ attention was focused on the rear deck of the luxury yacht. There was a round table surrounded with four canvas-backed deck chairs. Nearby, were two chaises with thick, linen-upholstered, mattresses. A woman, whom Kravitz guessed to be in her late forties, lay outstretched in a languid position on one of the chaises. Blonde, strikingly attractive, she wore a revealing white, bikini swimsuit; her body was deeply-tanned, glistening. Her breasts were firm, perfectly shaped. She was smoking. Click Click Moments later, the woman was joined by a young man. The man had exited the ship’s salon, carrying a silver ice bucket, with a bottle of champagne in one hand, and two, long-stemmed, fluted glasses in the other. He crossed to the table and began to uncork the champagne. The woman seemed hypnotized by him. Click Click As Kravitz peered through the camera, he could see that the young man was about 25; he was six-feet-tall, he had black curly hair; his face was square-jawed, chiseled. His body was lithe, muscular, tanned; he wore red swim trunks. He had an inflated male ego and staggering good looks. Click Click He poured the champagne into the fluted glasses and moved toward the woman, seating himself close to her on the chaise. They drank and all at once he grasped her tightly in his arms and began to kiss her. Hot. Insatiable. She responded immediately and her hand slid down his chest; she was massaging his belly. Click. They drank more champagne and their lovemaking continued. Suddenly, the top of her bikini fell away. Her breasts were firm, exposed; the nipples hard, erect. He caressed her breasts gently and once again there was a long, lingering kiss. Click Click Click Sid Kravitz watched lasciviously, as the two finally rose from the chaise. Hugging each other tightly, they disappeared into the salon.

Contrary to what most out-of-towners believe, Hollywood was not the center of the seven or eight major motion-picture studios. MGM, Columbia and Fox were located in West L.A. Universal, Warner Bros, and Disney were headquartered in the adjacent San Fernando Valley. Paramount Pictures at 5555 Melrose Avenue, was located in Hollywood, proper. Three blocks west of Paramount, on Melrose, was Marathon Pictures Corporation. Like its sister-studios, Marathon was walled, impregnable—entry to the expansive lot could only be made through massive, iron-grilled gates. The gates were manned by 24-hour security officers.

In addition to releasing feature films, sometimes 10 to 12 a year, Marathon had a strong television-producing arm. City of Angels was one of television’s top-rated shows. The show’s Neilson ratings were comparable to Law and Order, NYPD Blue, ER. The UBS network was talking about a five-year contract to renew the series. Marathon’s golden-boy and creative producer of Angels was Jonathan Barry. Barry, 55, was handsome, fastidious; from his seventy-dollar haircut, to his freshly-manicured nails, to his gold JB-initialed cufflinks, he was the personification of the successful, big-shot TV producer. He was always immaculately dressed in custom-made Armani suits, supple, hand-made alligator shoes. And he was tough. His demeanor was slightly arrogant, pompous, intimidating. About Jonathan Barry, there was an aura of quiet menace. It was a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude.

Barry was also lucky. Born Leonard Birnbaum and raised on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, he was the son of Nate Birnbaum, who owned and operated a women’s dress shop on Canal Street. Nate’s wife, Sylvia (always interested in show business) had taken singing and dancing lessons. Dancing as a chorus girl in a couple of Broadway shows, namely Oklahoma and South Pacific had become the pinnacle of Sylvia’s show-biz career. A career, she’d often said, to Nate Birnbaum’s chagrin, that had been sabotaged by her marriage. She’d become bitter, disillusioned, and when Leonard had barely turned twenty, Sylvia called her brother (who was a casting director at 20th) and asked him if he could find ‘Lenny’ a job. Two months later, Birnbaum had started out in the mail-room at 20th Century Fox—and the rest was history.

Manipulative, ego-saturated, a producer with a gambler’s daring and an obsession for story over money, Barry had shepherded City of Angels from a pilot script to one of television’s top shows. Like the aforementioned NYPD Blue, Angels was a gritty crime story, this one set in 1950’s L.A. The entire action of the series was centered around two LAPD Homicide detectives, one of whom was played by a good-looking and personable actor, named Craig Reynolds. Reynolds, 50ish, had just completed shooting an ‘interrogation scene’ on Stage 7, when he got the call. He was being immediately summoned to Jonathan Barry’s private office. In truth, Reynolds and Barry had had their differences; the bottom line—Reynolds had an intense dislike for the producer. He respected his talent, as a creative artist, but that was all.

With arms folded, Barry stood looking out the window at the Mexican Street. His office was lavish, professionally decorated. Masculine, subdued, there was much leather, rosewood paneling, chrome and glass. Three or four impressionist originals, each washed with a tiny, ceiling spotlight, climbed the sandy, suede-covered walls. A massive bronze sculpture of a Cherokee warrior, astride a horse, stood on a credenza, behind the huge mahogany desk. Suddenly, Barry turned to face Craig Reynolds, who was seated on the Italian leather sofa. "There is just no easy way to say this, Craig. You know it.. .and I know it...we go way back. You were the only actor I ever considered for the part of McShane. You know that!"

Reynolds said nothing.

"But.. .Goddamnit.. .things change.. .people change—"

What are you trying to say, Jonathan?

What am I trying to say? He shrugged. "I’m gonna put it to you straight and to the point, Craig. No beating around the bush. We have decided not to renew your contract."

Reynolds’ face tightened. "What the hell are you saying? I helped make this goddamned show—and you know it!"

Barry nodded. Yeah, I know! I know! But let’s face it...the ratings are beginning to sag! (a lie.) They want new blood.. .new faces—

New faces—my ass! Reynolds’ voice grew louder, almost strident.

Barry paused momentarily. "Aw, come on, Craig! I was watching yesterday’s rushes. Particularly you! Let’s be honest...we need a younger man for the lead. Let’s face it—there’s a certain amount of action, and you just can’t cut it, Craig. You’re beginning to move like an old lady. Sorry, buddy—but you’re out!" He shrugged. "I have no other choice. I’ve got to drop you from the show—"

Reynolds’ voice was low, hardly audible. Just like that, huh? Slowly, he shook his head. Son of a bitch! He glanced up. "Well, I’ll give you this much! At least I didn’t find out about it in tomorrow’s Hollywood Reporter—"

Barry threw the actor a shark’s smile. "This is nothing against you, personally, Craig. You know how these TV audiences are! Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the general public. They’re fickle! They’re nuts! They want some sexy stud, running around half-naked... somebody the broads can drool over...turn them on! This is television, Craig! This is just the way it is!"

Private Investigator, Sid Kravitz ran a one-man-operation (plus his secretary) out of the old Vine Street Building on Hollywood and Vine. Nothing really fancy. Nothing too complicated. He specialized in divorce cases (mostly surveillance,) missing persons, insurance claims. Kravitz was a nickel-and-dimer trying to boost himself into the big time. He felt a sudden surge of excitement as he pulled up in front of the main gate at Marathon Studios. A handsome security guard, looking splendiferous in a crisp black and white uniform and dark Ray Bans, approached the car. May I help you, sir? he asked.

Kravitz was slightly nervous. Yes. I have an appointment to see Jonathan Barry at 3:00 o’clock—

Your name, sir?

It’s Kravitz. Sid.. .or Sidney Kravitz.

The officer quickly scanned a list of names attached to a clipboard he held in his hand. Let’s see here...Kravitz...Kravitz! Yeah. Here it is. Sidney Kravitz.. .a 3:00 o’clock with Mr. Barry. The security guard handed him a plastic visitor’s badge, which Kravitz attached to his lapel. Mr. Barry’s office is on the 2nd floor...the Ziegler Building...first building on your right. Curt. Officious. "Have a good day, sir!’ The officer punched the remote control he grasped in his hand and the heavy, wrought iron gates swung open. Kravitz drove through and slid to a stop directly in front of the Ziegler Building.

Jonathan Barry was seated at his desk. He’d just lit up a long Havana cigar. As he gazed somewhat nonchalantly into space, his face reflected a curious expression: there was the hint of a small smile, this, mixed with an aura of smug, self-satisfaction. The termination of Craig Reynolds had gone well—much smoother than he’d anticipated. No shouting. No abusive retaliation. No histrionics. Reynolds was out, and Barry had covered all the bases. He’d secretly been auditioning a dozen young actors to replace Reynolds. He’d signed a strapping, 30-year-old, black actor named Marcus Williams to a five-year-contract. City of Angels would resume shooting in two weeks. Suddenly, Barry’s intercom buzzed. He picked up. Your 3:00 o’clock appointment is here, Mr. Barry...Sidney Kravitz—

Fine. Fine, Rosemary. Send him in.

A significant change filtered across Barry’s face as he watched Sid Kravitz enter the office. As they shook hands, Barry’s look had turned speculative, apprehensive—almost a gleam of suspicion, which Kravitz was quick to notice. The P.I. seated himself opposite Barry and carefully laid his black, lizard-skin briefcase on the mahogany desk.

Nice to see you again, Sid. Can I get you anything? Coffee?...tea?...a drink?

Uh.. .no thanks, Mr. Barry. I know you got a busy schedule—

You sure?

Yeah, I’m sure. I won’t be taking up too much of your time...

Barry hesitated. He eyed Kravitz closely. Well... he said, were my suspicions correct? Was I on target?

Kravitz smiled a little.