Fatal Obsession

By John Leslie Evans

Set against the City Of Angels glittering facade, multi-millionaire tabloid publisher, Aaron Rosemont is found dead, brutally murdered with gunshots to the head...A top movie actors image is sabotaged by a smear campaign...False accusations threaten to derail a detectives brilliant career... An ill-fated love affair traps a woman in a web of conspiracy and murder. These are the shocking elements which lead LAPD homicide detectives, Joe Kellermann and Mike Rodriguez, into a labyrinth of greed, infidelity, obsession and murder-for-hire...

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 23, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468517026

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

CHAPTER ONE

 

Friday, 9/10/99. It was precisely 10:45 P.M. when the operator at Hollywood Station received the 911 emergency call. Aaron Rosemont, big-time publisher and CEO of the tabloid, Hollywood Undercover, had been found shot to death in his palatial office penthouse at 6000 Sunset Boulevard.

From 8:00 A.M. that morning, it had been a scorcher. 95 degrees, easy. For two days now, the hot Santa Ana winds had been blowing westward from the desert. As predicted and feared, a fire had broken out in the Angeles National Forest. The air in the vast L.A. basin was now more polluted than ever: a thick gray-blue haze; ashes falling like snow; the sun a fiery orange ball, barely visible through the waves of drifting smoke.

The El Conquistador. 1452 North Larrabee. Two blocks north of the Sunset Strip. A 1940’s job with a fake Spanish façade. For Detective Lt. Joe Kellermann—Home Sweet Home. Kellermann, fortyish, was tall, lean, muscularly-built, good-looking. His ex-wife, whom he’d accidentally found out was banging another cop (an ex-partner, no less) also described him as being impatient at times, unpredictably brusque, with a ballsy, aggressive attitude—he usually came across as the cerebral tough guy

If there was one attractive feature to his one-bedroom, shoe-box of an apartment, it would have to have been the small balcony which offered a breathtaking view of the city—a carpet of dazzling lights and neon that stretched all the way to the ocean. Kellermann lay outstretched on a chaise, quietly smoking. The sound of Whitney Houston singing, I Will Always Love You, filled the air. The wind had kicked up revealing a clear, crystalline night brilliant with stars. A full moon. The rustle of palm trees. The melodic tinkling of wind chimes somewhere off in the distance. Los Angeles at night could be a magical place.

Kellermann had just taken a deep drag on his cigarette, when he stiffened somewhat. It was the jarring sound of the telephone ringing. He reached over to a nearby table and picked up. Yeah. Kellermann here. He could hear the gruff, gravelled voice of Captain Frank Russo, chief honcho at the Hollywood Station: Yeah, Joe…it’s me, Russo! Just got a 911 call. A male DOA at 6000 Sunset. Rosemont Publications. 6000 Sunset Boulevard. You got that, Joe?

Yeah. I got it.

Rodriguez is on his way over there. He’ll be waitin’ for you in the main lobby. Okay, Joe?

Yeah, Cap. I’m on my way!

The Rosemont Publications building was a tall steel and glass structure that soared twenty-five stories into the night sky. Curbed adjacent to the building’s street entrance, were four black-and-whites, several unmarked vehicles, and a coroner’s wagon. Kellermann exited his car and as he crossed toward the glass entrance doors, he spotted Detective Mike Rodriguez standing just inside, sipping coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. Rodriguez, his partner for over two years now, was 30ish, darkly handsome, sensual, with hair the color of a blackbird. He’d been raised in a two-bedroom house on Soto Street, in East L.A. Rodriguez had always wanted to be a cop.

So…whaddya we got here, Mike? Russo sounded a little antsier than usual over the phone.

Vic is upstairs. Penthouse suite. Took at least three shots to the head.

Sounds like the perp really wanted him dead. Who called it in?

Rodriguez turned and indicated a young, uniformed security officer who sat at the main lobby’s reception desk. Name’s Estrada…called it in around 10:45.

Uh-huh. We’ll talk to him later. Kellermann began to move toward the bank of elevators. Let’s go up and take a look.

Aaron Rosemont’s office on the twenty-fifth floor of the building was lavish, professionally decorated. Three or four impressionist originals climbed the tawny, suede-covered walls. There was much leather, mahogany paneling, chrome and glass. A massive bronze sculpture of an American bald eagle stood on a black marble pedestal. A wall of glass overlooked the jagged skyline and the Hollywood hills in the distance. When the two detectives entered, they were greeted by the flash of a strobe light. Police photographer, Harry Palmer was taking pictures of the victim. Aaron Rosemont in his late seventies, overweight, balding, was seated at his mahogany desk in a slumped-over position. His massive head and his left arm were resting on the desk. A large pool of blood covered the desk-top. Rosemont’s head was facing toward the right. Rivulets of blood streamed down from three bullet wounds. His eyes had that soft, dry shine.

Palmer continued to photograph the death scene; fixing the position of Rosemont’s body for the record. As he did so, a deputy coroner, Dr. Thomas Blackman, was carefully examining the body. Criminalist experts were combing the office for clues. Blackman, about sixty, tall, gaunt-looking, glanced up at Kellermann. I count three shots to the head, Detective. I’d say, close range. Possibly a 9mm. Time of death: within an hour. Two hours at the most. I can tell you more, tomorrow.

What’s this guy do? What’s his job description, do you know? Kellermann said.

Blackman grinned. "He’s CEO of Rosemont Publications…and Rosemont Publications puts out that rag scandal-sheet, Hollywood Undercover. And anybody who puts out a rag scandal-sheet is bound to have a few enemies. Know what I’m getting at, Joe?"

Yeah. I get the picture.

You can release the vic anytime you want, Detective. I got all I need.

Kellermann, followed by Mike Rodriguez, exited the elevator and began to make his way across the lobby’s marble-tiled floor. As he approached Officer Estrada, he grabbed his hand. "Detective Kellermann…I understand you’ve already met, Detective Rodriguez."

Yes, I have. Nice meeting you, Detective.

We just need to ask you a few questions. I understand you made the 911 call at approximately ten forty-five?

Yeah. That’s right.

How did you know Mr. Rosemont had been shot?

I’d started my eleven o’clock rounds early…like to start on the top floor and work my way down.

I see. And…?

When I came to Mr. Rosemont’s office, I noticed the door was open. That never happens. So, I decided to investigate. I called out. No answer. So…I went into his office…and found him slumped over his desk. I called the 911 number, right away.

Is it unusual for Mr. Rosemont to be working this late at night? Rodriguez interjected.

"Not really. He often works late if he has a deadline to meet…"

Kellermann paused. "What about other people working in the building at night?"

Estrada smiled. "Oh, they’re outta here by seven o’clock at the latest. This place is like a tomb. We do keep a log for anyone entering and exiting the building at seven. That’s when we lock the doors." He handed Kellermann a list of about a half-dozen names.

"We’ll need a copy of this list. What about the janitorial crew? Were they here tonight?"

No. They don’t work Friday nights.

He paused again. "Let me ask you a question. You said you lock the doors at seven o’clock. Is there any other access to the building?"

Estrada chuckled. Security is a joke around here, Detective. It really sucks. Old man Rosemont might be a millionaire…he owns the building…but he won’t spend a nickel on security. Shit, anybody that wants to…can enter the building anytime they like. Through the subterranean garage. He shrugged. There are no sliding gates on the garage. It’s wide open. Like I said, security around here…is a goddamned joke!

Thanks, Estrada. Thanks for your time.

* * * * *

2050 Bellagio Road. Bel Air. 10:30 A.M. Hot, gusty, easterly winds whipped the huge trees surrounding the Rosemont estate. Radio reports had confirmed the fire in Angeles National Forest was 85-per-cent contained. There were long strands of yellow smoke that drifted across the sky—as the winds shifted toward the ocean. Kellermann recalled seeing photographs in an old Time magazine covering the disastrous 1960’s Bel Air fire, where over 100 multi-million-dollar homes were burned to the ground. The only thing left standing were row upon row of gaunt, charred, brick chimneys.

A pair of stately stone lions guarded the entrance gates to the vast Rosemont property. A long driveway lined with Royal palms, led to the Italian-villa styled mansion, in front of which was a baroque, octagonal-shaped, white marble fountain. The house itself was painted in burnished tones of terra-cotta and gold. There were wood shutters, encasing the arched windows. Wrought iron balconies. A red tiled roof. The surrounding gardens were immaculate. A Mexican gardener was busily trimming a row of fica trees. A glistening, white, Cadillac stretch-limousine was parked inside the porte-cochere.

Kellermann and Rodriguez hesitated momentarily as their unmarked pulled to a stop beside the marble fountain. They were impressed. Rodriguez smiled slightly as his eyes scanned the magnificent house. Shit! he whispered, Some people really know how to live! Right, Joe?

"Yeah. You can say that again!"

Kellermann rang the doorbell. They could hear the muffled sound of musical chimes emanating from inside the deep recesses of the house. The heavily-carved oak door opened and a butler appeared. He was a short, stocky Filipino with a mouthful of gold teeth. Yes. Can I help you, gentlemen? he said.

Kellermann flipped his ID. Detective Kellermann…my partner, Detective Rodriguez. LAPD. We’re here to see Mrs. Barbara Rosemont.

Suddenly, a woman’s voice was heard calling from inside the house. Who is it, Ramon? Who’s at the door?

There are two men from the Los Angeles Police, Mrs. Rosemont.

Oh. Take them into the living room, Ramon. I’ll be right down.

The detectives followed as the butler led them into the spacious, sunken living room. Reflecting the mansion’s Tuscany-inspired exterior, the room was opulently furnished. Burnished woods, textured wallpapers, brocaded sofas. A glittering Austrian chandelier hung from the gold-leafed, heavily-beamed ceiling. The focal point of the room was an ornate, baroquely-carved, marble fireplace. Antique-gold wall sconces and framed oil paintings climbed the yellow-ochre, adobe walls.

The Filipino butler had no sooner left, when Barbara Rosemont descended the long, curved stairway. Both detectives were astonished. Considering that Aaron Rosemont was in his late seventies, pushing eighty, they clearly expected to see a much older woman. Barbara Rosemont was somewhere in her late thirties, possibly forty. She was tall, blonde, extremely attractive. She was well-groomed, well made-up. She wore a white, tailored pant suit. A single string of pearls. Kellermann noticed a huge, square-cut diamond on her ring-finger. She was also charming. She approached the two men, warmly shaking their hands. I’m delighted to meet you… she said, But for the life of me I can’t understand why you’re here.

Kellermann eyed her closely. Mrs. Rosemont…we’re here because.

She cut him off. Please. How tactless of me…would you like some coffee…tea? A soft drink?

No thanks, Mrs. Rosemont. We’re fine.

You were saying?

We’re here about your husband, ma’am.

My husband? What about him, Detective? Was he hurt? Has something happened to him?

I’m going to be very honest with you, ma’am. Mr. Rosemont was shot last night, in his office.

Oh, my God! He was shot? Is he going to be all right? Is he going to be all right?

Kellermann’s voice lowered. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Rosemont. Your husband succumbed