Fatal Pose

By Barna William Donovan

MUSCLES, MAYHEM, MURDER
Venice, California: Where you’ll find the hottest beaches, hottest gyms, and hottest bodies. This is where ex-bodybuilder turned private investigator, Gunnar Marino, runs his business.
The World BodyBuilding Federation: The most successful health and fitness empire in the world. But WBBF President of Operations, Laura Preston, suddenly finds herself in the middle of a blackmail scheme, with bodybuilder Brad Holt threatening to expose a shattering secret from her past.
Where two adversaries meet: After Holt dies at a contest from what appears to be a dangerously unhealthy dieting regime, Marino is hired to look into whether or not his demise might have been the perfect act of murder. But the deeper Marino digs into the case—pressed by a personal obligation to Holt's sister—the more unsettled he is by Holt’s background, questioning the morality of seeking justice for a corrupt murder victim and pursuing a prime suspect who might have been a victim herself.
A showdown no one might walk away from: Finding himself in an escalating battle of wills and wits with Laura Preston, Marino is aided by a group of athletes he employs as an investigative staff, and Dr. Erika Lindstad, his former lover and ex-bodybuilder in her own right. But the more troubled Marino gets by the case, he realizes that he has no choice but to see the investigation to its conclusion...because suddenly he and everyone he cares for are targeted for death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955086127

Barna William Donovan

Barna William Donovan, a professor of communication and media studies, is a graduate of the film school of the University of Miami and he earned his Ph.D. from Rutgers University. His books on film and fandom include "The Asian Influence on Hollywood Action Films," "Blood, Guns and Testosterone: Action Films, Audiences, and a Thirst for Violence," and "Conspiracy Films: A Tour of Dark Places in the American Conscious." His commentaries on film, television, and popular culture have been quoted in media like the BBC, Variety, LiveScience, Forbes, Yahoo News, HLNTV, and various publications from Europe to Latin America.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

With a face like a homecoming queen, she had a body that must have been some one hundred and seventy pounds of lean muscle. At about five feet and six inches tall, her physique was flawlessly proportioned. She had a disarming smile, wore her hair in a well-styled pageboy, and sported a low-cut flowery summer dress. The wide neckline of her dress was snug atop the dense pectorals and reaching toward a pair of wide, hulking deltoids. The tight fit at the top, though, allowed for the dress to slacken at the waistline. There, her torso tapered from her hard-pumped lat muscles, creating the precision V look of her upper body.

Perfect, Laura Preston whispered as the flash bulbs strobed around their model.

They were snapping the final pictures for Muscle Quest magazine’s Bodybuilding R&R segment for next month’s issue. Laura was about to worry the shoot would run too late again. She had made a point of staying all the way until the end, but now she absolutely had to get going. Her mind was on the drive up to Big Bear Lake more than anything else. Well, the drive, the Smith and Wesson automatic handgun in her desk upstairs, and the meeting with Brad Holt.

All right, and that’s a wrap, Dave Sachs, the photographer, called and glanced at Laura.

She nodded her approval.

We’ll have the proofs for you by tomorrow, Dave told Laura. My word on that.

I know, Laura said.

I’m sorry we had to reshoot.

At least we’ll make the deadline. That’s what matters.

Hey, Laura, called Christy Gilmore, the model with the spectacular physique. "I think it’s a good thing we had to do a second shoot, you know."

How’s that? Laura asked.

I got a full circuit in since last time. Chest, legs, back, everything. This morning it was biceps and triceps.

She quickly raised her right arm and contracted her bicep. The fresh pump in the gym had the athlete’s muscles gorged with blood, looking as if the hypertrophied hunks of muscle were straining to explode right through her skin.

Back when she used to compete, Laura was merely a shadow of the enormous musculature on Christy Gilmore.

Christy flashed one of the winning smiles that helped propel her to victory three times in a row over the past year and a half. Winning the Ms. California Invitational, the National Physique Association’s All-National pro-qualifiers and the Muscle Extravaganza women’s championship had earned her the photo spread in the next issue of Muscle Quest.

The Bodybuilding R&R column was the human-interest section of each issue. It profiled what normal lives the physique competitors really lived outside the gym. Fighting the ongoing battle to mainstream the sport, Laura had conceived of the column three years ago. The R&R feature alternated between male and female athletes from month to month, and Laura knew most of the attention had to go into the women’s version. In the twenty-first century, she still had to fight wars to get the female athletes the respect they deserved. Someone like Christy Gilmore making it to the pro ranks was a godsend, Laura realized. Not only did Christy have an otherworldly physique, but her dimpled, girl-next-door smile might just generate a renewed interest in the floundering women’s division of the World Body Building Federation. Or maybe one day, Christy could start making movies and get herself elected governor of California.

That’s when Laura felt something like a spear of pure, solid ice ramming into the middle of her chest again. The blast of adrenaline flooding her body felt as if someone was deliberately tearing into her soul.

Because they were, Laura knew and fought to keep a convincing smile on her face as she said goodbye to Christy. Laura knew how precisely, how deliberately, her life and her career were targeted for complete destruction.

Brad Holt.

No, it was more than her career, Laura knew. Brad Holt would not be satisfied with that. He wanted to step on, to defile everything she believed in, everything she stood for in the WBBF organization, everything she wanted this sport to represent.

Except she would not give him that chance.

CHAPTER 2

The trip to Holt’s cabin came to an end on a dirt road outside Big Bear Lake Village. The headlights of Laura Preston’s Jaguar F-Type R Coupe speared through the darkness, eventually finding a two-story Victorian-styled lodge nestled on a small elevation. Not only was the property well hidden in the hills, but guarded on all sides by a forest of pines.

During the day, the unpretentious yet pricey-looking cabin might have looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Completely un-Brad-Holt-like, Laura thought and brought the car to a stop.

As she turned off the headlights, she glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the murk. The glow of lamps from inside the house and the moonlight let her see through some of the inky shadows all around the property. She didn’t see any other cars nearby. Holt had demanded a secluded meeting place, and it looked like they would have one. Of course, it was in both their interests to discuss their business in absolute privacy.

Laura checked her watch once more before getting out of the Jaguar. She was almost forty-five minutes late. That metal spike and the resultant flat tire had slowed her down, almost making her turn around and go back to Los Angeles. When the local in the SUV had pulled over to help, she had almost decided to not only flee but demand that the next time Holt meet her as far away from this place as they could possibly get. But she feared what his response might be. What if he refused to talk to her again? What if there would be no rescheduling? What if the deal would be off…?

Except it wouldn’t be, Laura knew well enough. Holt wanted his money, and they would do business one way or the other. She was just overwhelmed by tension, Laura realized and looking for an excuse to get out of there.

No! This is not the place, and you know it, a voice in her head insisted as she got out of the car and approached the porch. She had been seen by the guy in the SUV, and the location had now been compromised.

Laura rang the doorbell and waited.

At least two minutes ticked by, and there was no sign of life in the cabin other than the lights beyond the curtain-shaded windows. Three minutes now? She rang the bell again.

You bastard, Laura almost hissed. She was late, and Brad was making her wait.

Sure enough, after another minute, she heard movement inside.

When the door swung open, Laura was met by a six-foot frame burdened by a titanic load of muscle and clothed in a loud purple and red warm-up suit. The warm-ups looked as if they had been fashioned out of a parachute, without an inch of fabric going to waste.

Well, it’s nice you could make it, Brad Holt said after staring at her with an intense glare for a protracted couple of moments. Did you get lost in the dark, or were you having second thoughts?

I had a flat.

Another uncomfortable beat, and Holt smiled. I’m sorry. It’s just that there were a couple of things I’ve been dying to show you.

Rather, Laura thought, Holt’s mouth and facial muscles stretched into something, attempting to approximate a smile while his eyes remained disturbingly flat. Those eyes seemed to bore right into her. He reminded her of an alligator lying still, passive except for its jaws ever-so-slowly parting, anticipating prey.

But Laura also knew Holt’s off-putting demeanor must have had a great deal to do with his condition. Probably half-starved out of his mind and close to dehydration, his massive body was under tremendous strain. Brad had said he would be training for his comeback at the Sun State Classic bodybuilding competition with a vengeance, and he appeared to be keeping his word. Not only had he packed on a mammoth bulk of extra muscle, but he’d dieted down to what appeared to be around two or three percent body fat. He had the look of a true champion competitor again. He had the sunken cheeks, the thin lips, the glazed, starved eyes that sat in their bony sockets as the skull pressed through the drawn, dehydrated skin. On stage, the ultra-low body fat and dehydrated condition served to show off even the tiniest of grooves, striations, and separations in his muscles. Perhaps his preparation had been even better than when he had been competing in his twenties when his long string of championship titles had made him a WBBF legend.

Come in, Brad said and moved his goodly frame out of the doorway.

And let’s see what you’re just dying to show me, Laura thought, now even more conscious of the Smith and Wesson 9mm in her purse. So let’s see the surprise, she said, stepping into a living room that was just as incongruous as the rest of this cabin. It looked so sedate, she thought, so tastefully expensive and civilized. It just didn’t match the muscles-and-machismo combination wrapped up in Holt.

Although you must indulge me for fifteen more minutes, Brad said and crossed the living room, talking over his shoulder abruptly, not bothering to look at Laura anymore.

I’m sorry? she said.

I’ve gotta do ten more minutes on the stationary bike. Since you’re late, I had to start.

With that, he disappeared into an adjoining corridor, and moments later, Laura heard him descending a flight of stairs. He must have had his home gym in the basement. Laura knew that Holt had always been notoriously private during his final month of contest preparations, even in the old days. He liked to disappear from L.A. and train and diet alone. It was a mind game meant to keep the competition on edge, to keep the other athletes wondering what condition he would be in when he reemerged on contest day.

And this was yet another mind game, Laura realized, left standing alone in the middle of the living room. He wanted to keep her under tension.

You don’t have an ounce of class, do you? she muttered, then called after him, It’s a long drive back to L.A. I guess I can wait.

I knew you’d understand, Holt shouted from the basement, his voice accompanied by the whirring of a stationary bike.

Bastard, she hissed, noticing the onset of a dull headache pumping through her skull from just behind her right temple. She was tired, her adrenaline was raging and, she realized as a dull shot of pain passed through her stomach, she had barely eaten a scrap of food all day long.

So Holt’s taunting little game with the stationary bike was good for something, she told herself. She indeed had come prepared. Not only with the 9mm pistol, but one of the WBBF’s new line of Ultra Fuel energy bars in her purse.

How insane is all this? She almost said aloud, nearly breaking down into a fit of laughter as she fished the chocolate-flavored energy bar from her purse. It sat right next to the gun.

But the stationary bike hissed away somewhere in the basement as Laura replenished her energy reserves with the high-nutrient, high-carbohydrate bar. She then proceeded into the kitchen to get rid of its wrapper and get a drink of water. Uncanny was all she could think of the cozy, homey cottage. It didn’t fit Holt’s personality. The place looked like it had been made over by a much more sensitive and sensible wife. Except, she suspected, Brad Holt had probably never come anywhere close to marrying anyone. From all she’d read, his style was the fast, flashy, showy affair with the scores of interchangeable, silicone-stuffed bimbos in the endless series of Girls Caught in the Buff videos his company produced.

It didn’t make sense, though, Laura mused as she sipped some cold water and leaned against the kitchen counter. When she had first met Brad so many years ago, she would never have guessed he would turn into this sordid—

Hey! Turn that off! Holt yelled from the kitchen entrance, jolting Laura.

What the…? she gasped, nearly choking on a mouthful of water.

Goddamn it! Brad said and rushed to the kitchen sink. He started slamming his palm against the cold-water knob.

What is it?

Damned water doesn’t stop flowing! You’ll flood the whole kitchen!

Laura hadn’t even noticed a thin stream of water still trickling into the basin and not departing via an apparently clogged drain.

Nevertheless, Brad spent the next ten minutes pounding on the faucet, cursing, slamming the plunger up and down over the drain, then soaking water out of the basin with reams of paper towels.

So the picturesque Holt household wasn’t so perfect after all, Laura mused before Holt got down to business.

# # #

But you really are a saint, Laura, Brad said after he recovered from the strain the sink mishap put him through.

He was putting one hundred and ten percent into his comeback contest. Laura had to give it to him. Just a short session on the stationary bike and the impromptu plumbing project nearly floored him. He’d had to sit and pant at the kitchen table for nearly five minutes to get his strength back. He had muscles to rival those of a gorilla, yet the pre-contest dieting left him so weak a ten year old could have knocked him over.

You know I have to look good for the Sun State, Brad said and led her into the study. Returning once and for the last time to competition after seven years off, the expectations are high.

You said you were dying to show me something, Laura said coolly. She wanted him to get to the point. Once again, the weight of the Smith and Wesson automatic in her purse seemed to assert itself. Almost like the gun had grown heavier.

Entering the study, Laura was hit full in the face by the realization of how artificial everything she had seen in this place had been. This room reflected the real Brad Holt. The décor was no longer the rustic country charm of the living room and the kitchen. This was more like an old boys’ club’s smoking room as it would be designed by a group of rich pornographers. Beside the requisite leather smoking chairs and humidors, the hunting trophies and guns on the walls, and the football memorabilia, all four walls were crowded with the blown-up cover designs of the various Caught in the Buff videos.

It was almost childish the way Brad wanted to talk to her in this specific room, Laura thought. But she decided not to give him the satisfaction of being annoyed by the tacky soft-core porn bearing down all around her.

A couple of pictures are worth a thousand words, Brad said and picked what looked like a handful of pages cut out of various magazines off a desk. So just take a look at this before you listen to my pitch. You can obviously see the comparison between two generations of WBBF women.

Laura took the clippings from him. What’s this?

Go ahead, just look at ‘em.

She held in her hand two sets of photos of outstandingly athletic women. Except one set of pictures was from the nineteen-nineties, and the other from the current issues of the various fitness magazines published by the WBBF.

The pictures from the nineties were of bodybuilders. However, not a single woman had anywhere near the muscularity of someone like Christy Gilmore. Christy and today’s crop of top professional WBBF females could best most male college football players in any contest of strength. The women in the old batch of pictures, in comparison, looked willowy, smooth, yet adequately toned. They had bulging biceps, the shapely lines of gym-pumped triceps, long, smooth legs, and a hint of the proverbial six pack cluster of abdominal muscles.

The current photos of athletes did not feature bodybuilders, however. They were fitness and physique contestants. Fitness contests were the consternation of Laura’s WBBF career. They frustrated her to no end because fitness was where the company made its money from female athletes. The WBBF didn’t bring in the fans when they ran a bodybuilding show with Christy Gilmore and her hulking, ultra-muscular colleagues, but they made their profits off fitness shows. The physique women, in contrast, were more like bodybuilders from the nineties but also nowhere near as muscular as the bodybuilders of today. Fitness shows were something like a Las Vegas version of aerobics workouts. They featured women with toned bodies and faces like models, all with ample breast implants and wearing butt-floss bikinis, jumping, dancing, and tumbling through exercise routines on stage. Fitness was T&A with no apologies. Sure, the women were far and away more fit and athletic than the average population, but their athleticism was secondary in a fitness show. Fitness was about beauty, about traditional standards of feminine appearance, about rounds of swimsuit judging after the tumbling and jumping around.

As far as Laura was concerned, it was a mockery of everything a sport like bodybuilding was supposed to have given women. Rather than empowerment through self-definition, through shattering conventional standards of appearance, fitness was a reaffirmation of a narrow, male-dominated, male-defined model of the female body. Fitness was what WBBF fans wanted, and fitness was what Laura had to support, even to the detriment of bodybuilding and all the values she believed in because that’s where her company turned its profits.

Despite all this, however, one fact remained: at least the modern physique women still looked more muscular and stronger than the female bodybuilders of the nineties, back when she used to compete. Laura had often thought about this, and the comparison gave her some small measure of comfort. Standards of appearance were indeed changing over the years, yet for every step forward, the female athletes had to take one step back. They could lift weights, but not too much, and they had better have a face like a beauty queen and sashay around in high heels after doing an exercise routine.

Laura looked at Brad. And your point is…?

That I’m not proposing to totally dismantle all the wonderful and very important gains you’ve let WBBF girls make all these years, he said, his tone unmistakably condescending.

And how do you see it that way?

I’m all for these lovely fitness beauties you have on a pro contract at the WBBF. The way I see it is that I’m letting some of your sisterhood of iron have some kind of a professional organization last for a few more years instead of going bankrupt.

Do you?

You can tell people like…uh, what’s the name of that new one you just signed as a pro? Christy Gilmore, right? Tell ‘em they can lay off all the juice and still be in the WBBF. Actually, have a chance of a guy ever wanting to lay his hands on ‘em.

You’re a real class act, Brad, Laura hissed.

You’ve got problems, and you know it.

And you’re going to come in and solve those problems, right?

I’m going to come in—once I’ve won the Sun State in three days, retired from competition for good—and be named the new president of operations just after you announce your retirement. Then I’m going to put the WBBF back on the right track, Brad said, meeting Laura’s eyes and never once blinking.

He paused after his recitation, however, continuing to stare into Laura’s eyes, challenging her.

Go ahead, Brad, play your hand, Laura said at length.

He nodded. "I’m going to take over and take this organization where it has the potential to go. Make the kind of real money the company should be making. Promoting our products and promoting bodybuilders—men!—real bodybuilders, and not sink money into art exhibits that hemorrhage money and feminist empowerment documentaries no one wants to see. And we’re not going to waste time and money and resources on…freak shows, face it."

Laura no longer wanted to use the gun on Brad. She wanted to go at him with her two hands. You didn’t seem to think they were all freaks back when…back when we met, did you? You had no problem trying to get your hands on me.

You were no Christy Gilmore, Brad said lightly. "And you know, here’s the thing I just can’t understand. You never even looked like or tried to juice so hard back in the old days, so you would ever look like these women—is that what they are?—you’re so hell-bent on promoting today. I mean, what is it? Is it like a sex thing or something like that? Turn on?"

Laura took a deep but well controlled breath before saying evenly, "I didn’t have the genetics the WBBF rewards now, so there was no point in any more…juicing, was there?"

Holt raised an eyebrow with a truly confused look.

But that doesn’t mean the genetically gifted today shouldn’t be rewarded for living up their best potential.

Holt’s expression hardened again. Get real, Laura. You know what’s driving Bob Holbrook’s organization into the ground. Your obsessive pet projects. And you and I both know women’s bodybuilding is finished.

And just what exactly are you proposing?

"All women’s contests only run as a double bill with the men’s and canceling the least profitable ones. We cut the prize money, we stop using those…women in promotions for products, and we cut all magazine features on any of the women ‘builders. Then, that art exhibit thing has to—"

That’s barely costing any money! Laura exclaimed. In fact, she had just noticed, the clippings she held in her hand included a copy of an advertisement for The Amazon in the 21st Century female bodybuilder art exhibit the WBFF was sponsoring at a series of college galleries. Brad didn’t just want to go after her job. He wanted to hurt her and humiliate her in any possible way he could. The real pleasure for him was finding everything she held dear, things she believed in, and trampling on them.

It will have to go!

You vindictive bastard—

And your film production ideas. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no way that’s going to fly…well, not that we’re not going to continue expanding into film, per se.

There was that cadaverous imitation of a smile on Brad’s face again.

What do you mean? Laura asked.

A WBBF and Brad Holt’s Golden Edge co-production, featuring the ladies of WBBF fitness, Brad said and swept his hand from left to right like he was tracing a headline written in the air. WBBF Fitness Beauties Caught in the Buff.

"With your…hands on approach to working with your actresses, I suppose."

It’s helped me turn out such outstanding work in the past, don’t you agree? Brad said and paused with a lecherous grin.

And if I announce I’ve decided to stay on in a co-presidential capacity?

You won’t.

I’m supposed to just step down and let you take my job and turn the WBBF into your personal brothel?

"You’ll step down immediately after the Sun State Classic! Or the Navajo County District Attorney will be told about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of Billy Webb. Poor kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Killed out of a tragic, misguided act of vigilante justice."

Laura knew what Brad had over her, but hearing that name let her feel her face flushing like her skin was burning dry in an instant. You think you can—

"Oh, I know I can, Brad snapped. And you know I can prove it. I don’t sit down to play unless I’ve got a winning hand, sweetie. I thought you knew that about me. It’s too bad what happened back in Arizona, all those years ago. You and your sister getting…. Well, the fact is you…. He paused and stabbed an accusing finger at Laura. Lowering his voice, he said, You killed him, and you covered it up. You killed the wrong man, an innocent kid, and you kept quiet about it. See what happens when we take the law into our own hands? All hell starts breaking loose. And eventually, you pay the price. Now, do we have an agreement or not?"

The moment was here, Laura realized, the blood pounding in her ear. She could just slip her hand into her purse, just like she planned, just like she had practiced the move so many times, draw the Smith and Wesson, and put a 9mm slug through Holt’s brain before he realized what happened.

All right, she said instead.

A panic alarm in her mind was over-riding the plans. She had to change them right now. Staring into Holt’s ravaged, haggard face, she recognized a better way out of his blackmail. There was a safer alternative than making it look like an obvious murder.

At the Sun State, I’ll announce my resignation.

Brad flashed one of his predatory smiles. "At the Sun State? I like that. Even under pressure, you’ve got so much style."

And you’re not approaching Bob about any of your plans until—

Until after the show. Of course. We can’t have word of this getting out by accident. Make it look like it had something to do with me winning the contest. Sure, it will be fantastic after the fact, the new WBBF president of operations taking over after his long-shot comeback victory, defeating competitors who are so much younger, so much stronger. But it would look bad if it gets out that I was angling for the job all along.

What if you don’t win? Laura couldn’t help asking.

Holt’s face clouded over, just like she thought it would. You’re making sure I do, he said. Or you better be.

"Of course. It’s a handsome purse at stake. You can use the prize money alone to start getting your…your friends off your back, right? Start repaying what you owe before they come threatening you."

Yeah. Until the WBBF and my production company—

Until you start embezzling from Bob Holbrook.

Despite his ragged appearance, Holt was shockingly fast as he lunged at Laura and grabbed her arm. His fingers tore into her flesh like talons.

"Don’t you ever say that again! he spat. Those words had better not come out of your mouth again, anywhere, or the Navajo County DA will be the least of your worries."

All right, Laura said and tried pulling her arm free, but Holt wouldn’t let go. I told you I agree to everything.

Holt released her at last. Good girl. I’ll see you back in L.A. in two days.

As Laura turned around to leave, she was jolted by Brad giving her a quick slap on her rear end.

Be careful driving home. Those roads are murder in the dark, he called after her.

Laura stopped and turned around. Despite Holt’s threats, she felt surprisingly energized now. Oh, Brad. And you be careful how much time you spend on that bike in your condition.

What?

You look pretty dehydrated. You remember that contestant who died at the Mr. Empire three years ago?

Brad raised his right hand and waved. I’ll see you in L.A., babe.

CHAPTER 3

The Sun State classic is one of the premiere events in professional bodybuilding, Gunnar Marino said, unable to suppress a slight smirk.

He saw the hulking guy in the Protein Torpedo supplement display booth grinning and winking at Kelly Vaughn. Kelly, standing by Gunnar’s side, shuddered and turned away as the Torpedo salesman tried to improve his impression by flexing his pectorals. Two large waves of dense chest muscle rippled under the big guy’s tight tank top.

Professional, huh, Kelly whimpered and averted her gaze from her new admirer. I guess you have to be paid to do this kind of stuff, don’t you?

Treating his sometime business partner to the World BodyBuilding Federation’s Sun State Classic competition at the Santa Monica Palace Hotel and Convention Center was bound to