Hollywood Murder by M. Z. Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

a wealthy investment broker. It could be that the maid’s murder was a message. Maybe the family is being held for ransom under the threat that the same thing will happen to them if either Vincent or his father-in-law doesn’t pay up.”

EIGHT
     
    Henry Montreal made the drive from his Beverly Hills home to the financial district in downtown Los Angeles in just under an hour. The financier, who was in his late fifties, with a wisp of white hair and piercing blue eyes, cursed as he weaved his way through the busy streets. Traffic was terrible this time of day. He silently cursed the fact that he’d wasted the entire morning, consoling his wife and avoiding the media. Georgette had fallen apart after learning their daughter and her kids had gone missing. She’d even wanted him to stay home and spend the day with her. That would never happen.
    While he was worried about Allison and the bratty grandkids, he had other things on his mind. He had a major deal pending with a group of real estate investors, and that was his current priority. After the meeting was finished, he’d put his energy into dealing with what he’d privately deemed, “The Situation”.
    At first, it had crossed his mind that his son-in-law might somehow be involved in what happened. When he heard the gruesome details of the crime, he quickly dismissed that possibility. Vincent Marsh was a spineless coward, with no stomach for violence or confrontation. Even the possibility that he’d hired someone to kill the maid and kidnap his family seemed out of the question. Henry knew from the many conversations he’d had with his friends at the law firm where Vince worked that his son-in-law was lazy, also bordering on incompetent. Henry knew that he’d only made partner because he’d pulled some strings behind the scenes for his daughter’s sake.
    As he pulled into the parking garage south of the Bunker Hill area where he worked and walked to the elevators, Henry put it all out of his mind. His priority was funding the development of Seaport, a multi-million dollar upscale condominium project in Newport Beach. If the negotiations went as he expected, the return on his investment would be close to twenty percent. That translated into fifty million dollars. Not a bad payday for a kid who grew up on the south side of Chicago, stealing money from anyone who was easy pickings to pay the extortion money demanded by the local street gangs.
    He remembered one bitterly cold Chicago night when he was ten years old and had come up a few bucks short. He had been beaten and left unconscious. That lesson had taught Henry Montreal that you did what was necessary to make your way in this world. You begged, you borrowed, and you stole, if that’s what it took, at the same time you pushed down the rage that simmered from being born into a life of poverty.
    The financier was through with all that. He now controlled the game and made sure that anyone who tried to cross him knew that. The roles had been reversed. He was the one in control of the streets, and the streets where he now held court were lined with money.
    The office where Montreal worked was on the top floor of the twelve story beaux-arts Brockman Building. The historic high rise had a private entrance, allowing him to enter and leave without having to waste his time with pleasantries and the distraction of the office staff. People could find a million ways to waste your valuable time, and his time was all about money. Waste not, want not.
    As soon as he entered the office, Montreal’s gaze immediately went over to his desk. For a moment he thought the cardboard box might be some office supplies that Campbell, his secretary, had placed there. But even as he walked over to the container, he knew that wasn’t likely. Campbell had strict orders not to touch anything in his office. It was his sanctuary, off-limits to everyone except him.
    After opening the box, he had a sudden instinctual revulsion to what was