The Prince of Beverly Hills (Rick Barron Novel, Band 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Stuart Woods is the author of more than eighty-five novels, including the #1 New York Times-bestselling Stone Barrington series. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and Connecticut.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

RICK BARRON HEARD THE HOWL of the engine from at least a block away. He was not happy to be sitting in a patrol car at the corner of Sunset and Camden at two A.M. on a summer evening in 1939; he was not happy to be wearing a badge with the rank designation of Police Officer, instead of the detective’s badge he had worn until the day before; and he was not happy to be in a uniform, instead of a suit. The stiff, new cloth itched.

He looked to his right, toward Ciro’s and the Mocambo and the rest of the clubs on the Strip. At this hour, Sunset was devoid of traffic, except for one set of large headlights rushing toward him at a high rate of speed. Rick started the patrol car. This might be fun, he thought.

Then he saw the other car. It was a Model A Ford coupe, and it was across the boulevard, coming toward him down Camden, about to stop at Sunset. Only it didn’t stop. The little car drove right through the stop sign, moving slowly, toward the safety of Camden on the other side of Sunset. Rick’s mouth dropped open; this couldn’t be happening. He looked at the oncoming speeder and had just enough time to identify it as a Mercedes-Benz SSK, top down, before it struck the little coupe broadside. The powerful sports car had been doing at least sixty, Rick thought, and it had never even braked.

The coupe collapsed as if it had been made of tinfoil, absorbing nearly the entire force of the crash, then spun toward the side of the road and came to rest, hard, against a telephone pole. The Mercedes was not stopped, only deflected. It skidded sideways toward the opposite side of the street, struck the curb and rolled over, flinging its driver into a high oleander hedge before coming to rest in an upright position. Rick picked up the microphone.

“This is car 102. I’ve got a serious car accident at Sunset and Camden. Request an ambulance and another patrol car immediately.”

The radio crackled. “Roger, 102, they’re on their way.”

Rick switched on the flashing light on top of his Chevrolet patrol car, drove across Sunset and stopped at the curb, next to what was left of the coupe. The street was still perfectly clear, with a wreck on each side. He jumped out of the car and started for the coupe.

Sheets of paper littered Sunset, and Rick picked up one. There was a picture of Paul Whiteman on the front: sheet music. He dropped it as he reached the coupe and looked inside. The car was a third of its former width, and the woman inside was barely distinguishable from a pile of cubed beef on a butcher’s counter. Rick had never seen such gore. He reached into the car and picked up her left wrist, feeling for a pulse, but felt none. Nothing more to be done here.

The road was still empty of traffic. He ran across Sunset to the hedge and found the other driver lying facedown in the hedge. Rick turned over the unconscious man and saw that he was wearing a tuxedo. And he wasn’t unconscious. The man coughed and sat up, leaning on his elbows. “Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered. “What the fuck happened?” He had the makings of a fine shiner around his left eye.

Rick got a snootful of alcohol fumes. “You hit another car,” he replied. “Are you hurt?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. He was handsome, tanned, with thick blond hair and a well-trimmed mustache. “You’ve got to get me out of here,” he said, grimacing. His beautifully even teeth gleamed under the streetlamp. His accent was British.

Then Rick recognized him. Sirens could be heard in the distance, and his mind worked at a furious pace, weighing options, considering gain against punishment. He decided. “Can you stand up?” he asked.

“I guess so,” the man replied.

Rick helped him to his feet, took hold of a wrist and slung the man’s arm around his neck. Rick was six-two, and the man was as tall. “Come on,” Rick said, “we’ve got to move fast.” He scurried across Sunset, half walking, half dragging, and got the man into the rear seat of the patrol car. “Lie down there, so nobody can see you,” he commanded. He was about to get behind the wheel, when he had another thought. He ran back across Sunset to the wreck of the Mercedes, found his pocketknife and quickly unscrewed the license plates. Then he went to the driver’s side, groped around the steering column and ripped off the registration certificate that had been secured there. As he stuffed it into his pocket, another patrol car arrived, siren dying.

“I’ve got one of ’em in my car,” he said to the driver. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt too bad. I’ll take him to the hospital. You wait for the ambulance. The other one is hamburger.”

“Okay,” the other cop replied.

Rick ran for his car and got behind the wheel. “Where can I take you?” he asked.

“Find a phone,” the man replied from the depths of the rear seat.

Rick started the car, made a U-turn and swung down Camden, driving fast. After two blocks, he saw a pay phone on a corner. “Who do you want me to call?” he asked.

A hand came up from the backseat with a small, black address book. “Call Eddie Harris,” his passenger said. “Tell him what’s happened. He’ll know what to do.”

Rick ran to the phone booth and closed himself inside it. The light came on, and he riffled through the book, looking for the number. The names there were a roster of Hollywood celebrities, most of them women; Lana Turner and Hedy Lamarr were there. He found a home number for Harris, dropped a nickel into the phone and dialed. Harris was something at Centurion Studios; Rick wasn’t sure just what.

“What?” an angry, sleepy voice barked into the phone.

“Mr. Harris, my name is Barron. I’m a Beverly Hills Police officer.”

“Go on,” Harris replied. His voice was calm now.

“I’ve got Clete Barrow in my patrol car. He’s been in a bad accident; a woman is dead.”

“How badly is Barrow hurt?” Harris demanded.

“He seems to be okay. He should be checked out at a hospital, though.”

“No. Take him to Centurion, to his bungalow. I’ll meet you there. What was your name again?”

“Barron.” Rick spelled it for him.

“Hurry up,” Harris said.

“Yessir.” Rick hung up and ran for the car.

IT TOOK HIM LESS THAN ten minutes to reach the film studio, no flashing light, no siren. He slid to a stop at the gate. A guard, apparently warned he was coming, waved him on.

“First left, second right,” the man in the backseat said. “Number 104.”

Rick followed the directions.

“Right here,” Barrow said from the rear seat. He was sitting up now.

Rick parked the car, slid across the seat, opened the rear door and helped his passenger out. He looked around. He was on what looked like a street of bungalows. He steered Barrow up the front walk of a pretty cottage with window boxes and a swing on the front porch. Barrow fumbled with a key and let them into the house.

Rick found himself in a beautifully decorated living room, furnished with every comfort. Barrow opened a door and switched on some lights in an adjoining room. Rick blinked in the glare. Barrow sat down at a wide dressing table with a big mirror surrounded by little lightbulbs. He looked carefully at his face in the mirror. “No real damage,” he said, with some satisfaction. He felt his body. “Maybe some bruised ribs, and they’ll have to...