Stuart Woods - The Prince of Beverly Hills

Synopsis:

A brash detective enters the Hollywood fast lane jammed with the sort of wealth, glamour, and blackmail it is famous for in this new thriller by the bestselling author of the Stone Barrington series.

Stuart Woodss new novel is a sexy, action-packed thriller in the tradition of his best. As the Cleveland Plain Dealer wrote about his last novel, Capital Crimes, Woods knows how to deliver a taut, well-told tale... The last two paragraphs will make any reader gulp. In The Prince of Beverly Hills, set in Hollywoods Golden Age of the 1930s, Woods introduces a new character that possesses the kind of suave confidence, take-charge manner, and clever wit-under-pressure that his fans will recognize and love at first sight.

Rick Barron, a sharp, capable detective on the Beverly Hills force, finds himself demoted after a run-in with his captain, but soon lands a job on the security detail for Centurion Pictures, one of the hottest studios. As the protector of the studios interests, Barron looks after the cream of the crop of filmdoms stars Clete Barrow, the British leading man with a penchant for parties; and Glenna Gleason, a peach of a talent on the verge of superstardom. Ricks easy charm has society columnists dubbing him the Prince of Beverly Hills, the white knight of movie stars, until he uncovers a murder cover-up and a blackmail scam that threatens the studios business and may originate with the West Coast mob. When two suspicious deaths begin to look like double-murder, and an attempt is made on Glenna Gleasons life, Barron knows he is up against wise guys whose stakes are do-or-die. A dicey war of nerves is on.

Set in the era of high style and silver-screen romance, Woodss thoroughly entertaining new crime novel shows us once again why he is a master of the genre.

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 detectives 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 Ciros 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 didnt stop. The little car drove right through the stop sign, moving slowly, toward the safety of Camden on the other side of Sunset. Ricks mouth dropped open; this couldnt 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. Ive got a serious car accident at Sunset and Camden. Request an ambulance and another patrol car immediately.

The radio crackled. Roger, 102, theyre 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 butchers 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 wasnt 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 dont think so, he said. He was handsome, tanned, with thick blond hair and a well-trimmed mustache. Youve 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 mans arm around his neck. Rick was six-two, and the man was as tall. Come on, Rick said, weve 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 drivers 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.

Ive got one of em in my car, he said to the driver. He doesnt seem to be hurt too bad. Ill 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 whats happened. Hell 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 wasnt sure just what.

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

Mr. Harris, my name is Barron. Im a Beverly Hills Police officer.

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

Ive got Clete Barrow in my patrol car. Hes been in a bad accident; a woman is dead.

How badly is Barrow hurt? Harris demanded.