The Poisonous Ten

THE

POISONOUS TEN

TYLER COMPTON

Veneno Publishing

LOS ANGELES, CA

Copyright © 2013 by
Tyler Compton.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Tyler Compton/Veneno Publishing

Los Angeles, CA 90046

www.tylercomptonbooks.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, an
d others. For details, contact the address above.

The Poisonous Ten/Tyler Compton -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-
9893845-1-3

For my parents

P R O L O G U E

The dial tone from the phone used to place the 911 call echoed throughout the multi-million-dollar home up above the Sunset Strip. The person who had placed the anonymous call had either vacated the premises or was in a condition that now prevented him or her from hanging up the phone. The original distress call had come in at 8:23 on that otherwise uneventful Wednesday morning, the last Wednesday in the month of August. When the dispatcher first answered the call there was no reply, and she was checking to make sure the line was working when she heard the faintest sound of someone breathing. She checked the computer to see where the call originated, when an alert immediately came up of a tripped silent alarm in the same residence. The dispatcher called the private security firm that handled the gated community and sent out a call for a 211S—robbery with a silent alarm. When the private security for the gated community failed to respond within a timely manner, the LAPD were then contacted.

A real estate sign was posted in the front yard of the 22,000-square-foot lot within the private, gated community that was nestled off Mulholland Drive, looking down over
the city. The information brought up on the home had it currently listed as unoccupied. The driveway in front of the house lay devoid of any vehicles, a requirement of the home owner’s association. The front door showed no signs of anyone having broken in, other than being ajar a few inches. Hardwood floors ran from the front door to the back patio.

Near the back was the kitchen, just as pristine, sterile, and hollowed out as the rest of the house. The back kitchen patio doors looked out at the canyon below, making the view alone worth the asking price. The valley was serene, giving off a false sense of paradisiacal hope. The sounds of a lawnmower could be heard off in the distance. The city showed no signs of the usual intoxicating smog building up, but it was still early, with the temperature already rising above eighty. The smog would come soon enough.

The small, undeveloped yard below seemed incongruous with the expansive mansion behind it. But then again, people didn’t move into houses like these—in these locations—for the yards. The multiple-story houses lined the hills as if they had been dropped like sprinkles on a cake. For these houses, it was all about the view.

Connecting with the kitchen was the living room, filled with a sofa, two end tables, a coffee table and disconnected TV so as to give the place a homey, familiar feel. A closed door on the opposite end of the living room led to a neig
hboring room that was most likely usually used as a home office. The room was completely white, from the carpet below to all four walls and the ceiling above. Four floor-to-ceiling windows on two of the walls opened up the room to allow for the maximum amount of sunlight, though the room still felt stuffy, the air inside polluted somehow. There was a faint, musty smell in the room, somewhat nutty and sweet.

The room was barren, save for a woman who sat in a si
ngle, white chair, her back to the door while she stared out the windows at the valley below. The only other color in the room was a circle of what appeared to be dark-purple paint on the carpet around the woman, as if keeping her in some sort of otherwise invisible force field. The woman wore a white, polyester cocktail dress, with matching heels and French-manicured fingernails, as if she had done herself up to go out on a date. She had short, curly, blonde hair that had been put up in a twist. Casual, yet elegant. Her eyes were open and glossed over, like milky eye drops had been placed over them, never to blink again.

Her cheeks were rouged, now slightly off-putting as the color clashed with her
decaying skin, while the bright, luscious color of her lipstick-covered lips stood out like those on a porcelain doll. Her skin had an off-color, yellowish-blue tint to it, that would have appeared to be cold to the touch had anyone been watching her, despite the fact that her skin was quite warm. Her head tilted off to the side, slightly leaning back, stretching the skin of the front of her neck, the veins in it staining her off-color skin like branches of a leaf-less tree against a cold autumn sky. A few drops of the same purple paint that circled the woman were on both sides of the otherwise pristine, form-fitting dress.

The final touch to this otherwise macabre display of a
ffection had the corpse with both her hands in her lap, each clasped around a bouquet of various purple-hued flowers, as if eternally waiting for her true love to show up and give her a kiss that would bring her back to life.

Unfortunately for Allison Tisdale, it was a kiss that was both too late and never
to come.

PART

ONE

1

Detective David Parks of the LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division stood in the darkness of his bathroom, not yet ready to turn on the light. Not yet ready to face the day. Or his own reflection.

And if
he
wasn’t ready, what would that say about anyone else?

He had been on his third cup of coffee and putting toget
her a five-thousand-piece Ravensburger puzzle of the Tower of Babel in his living room when he received a call from the watch commander letting him know that his presence was needed up on Mulholland at the scene of a homicide. Parks had stared at the frustrating puzzle before him and made a mental bet at which would be easier to solve. He took down the information and promised to be at the crime scene within thirty minutes. Then he looked back at the puzzle taunting him—one side away from having the entire outer edge finished and realized it would be closer to forty.

Parks reached for
the light switch, his hand hovering over it for a few seconds—
come on, it’s just a light switch, not the end of the world
—before he finally flipped the switch. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and ran a hand over his recently shaved head, something that had been done at the hospital three weeks prior so the doctors could stitch up the numerous cuts he had received. His bruises had all but disappeared.

He
had spent the last two months tracking down an unknown culprit who left apples and candy filled with razor blades in several of the local elementary schools, each one of which had found its way into a child’s hands or mouth. Over a dozen children had to be hospitalized, most requiring stitching and/or cosmetic surgery of some sort to repair the physical damage that had been done. One child had even swallowed a razor blade, and after four hours of surgery was eventually saved.

Both teachers and parents became frenzied to a state of panic, to say nothing of the children, who were dum
bfounded by the whole situation. Teachers were questioned. Faculty members. Janitorial staff. No one had any idea who was attacking the children or how the perpetrator got onto the school grounds. Leads had been growing thin when Parks finally identified the assailant as Peter Kozlov, a former substitute teacher who had lost his own son six months earlier and, subsequently, his job.

Deciding that taking the life of his wife was more impo
rtant than fleeing, Kozlov tried to run her over, ultimately missing and taking the life of Parks’s partner, Detective Aaron Levinson, in the process. In Parks’s attempt to apprehend Kozlov, he found himself on the wrong end of a razor blade, his arms, hands, and face receiving the brunt of their carnage.

After the events, which were praised by the LA Unified School District and numerous children’s parents, as well as the LAPD, who awarded him the Medal of Valor, Parks was ultimately given a department-paid “recovery period.” Though with the department questioning and reviewing L
evinson’s less than ethical actions during the Kozlov case, Parks—by association as the man’s partner—felt it was more a forced time-out while he too was reviewed.

He should have been there for him. For his partner. If o
nly he had been then maybe none of this would have happened. Levinson wouldn’t be dead. He wouldn’t have been suspended. Didn’t matter what they called it, he knew what it really was. This time off allowed the department to review every last detail of his entire career with a fine-tooth comb. He knew that much. They just needed him out of the way so they could go over his caseload. See if his actions were just as questionable as his partner’s. See if they needed to find a more permanent home for him besides out solving murders. And even worse than any of that, they were checking his past to see if he too had made any mistakes that would now result in the release of killers and rapists and other deviants harmful to society. They were worried, and he understood why. He was one of the best they had in the department. One of the most decorated. More commendations than anyone else. A spotless record. An impressive record. And then Levinson had been caught—manufacturing false evidence, no less—and suddenly Parks’s actions were put into question. Forget all the good he had done. He was simply fruit of the tainted tree. After all, how could one be partners with someone for five years and not know just how devious they had been?  

Parks turned on the water and filled his cupped hands with it before splashing his face. He needed to get over this. He had been asked back. Would they really have done that if they still questioned him? His dedication? His loyalty? His ethics?

It had now been three weeks of watching game shows, working out at the gym, running seven miles a day, and figuring out his thousand-plus-piece puzzles; and he was close to going over the edge. He was a working man. He needed the job. For him, there was little else. No wife. No kids. No friends, to speak of. He had spent the last fifteen years dedicated to the job.  

He noticed his hands shaking, from the adrenaline that was surging through his body and realized he felt somewhat like a student on their first day of school.

Pull yourself together
, Parks thought to himself.
You’ve nothing to prove. You’ve done this a hundred times before.

Was it adrenaline? Or was it his pills? They had put him on a new prescription and his body was still working it through his system. He’d often found himself suffering
through insomnia, heat flashes, and blurry vision, all of which were due to the new meds. This could be another side effect. 

He turned off the faucet and glanced at the two orange prescription bottles on the counter and nodded approvingly. Three weeks earlier, he’d had four times as many bottles. As both bottles were currently empty, he would have to stop by the department shrink’s office later that day if he expected a refill. He had never cared for pills and didn’t see any pu
rpose in getting more. If he was good enough to come back to work then he was good enough to put his physical limitations behind him as well.

Parks pocketed his cell phone along with his wallet and identification and headed to the bedroom, where he picked out a distinguished-looking tie that he wasn’t even sure matched the rest of his outfit. He noticed a coffee stain on the front of his shirt and considered just throwing on a jac
ket, hoping no one would notice. He contemplated this for almost half a minute but knew it was unlikely and quickly changed his shirt and tie. He then grabbed his department-issue standard weapon, the coldness of the weapon feeling good against his hands. It was the first time in three weeks he had touched his gun, not even managing to hit the gun range for some practice on his down time. That wasn’t like him. He was always focused, always in tune, always prepared—or getting prepared—for whatever came next. He had been lazy the last few weeks, a condition he was more than willing to blame on his meds. He mentally scolded himself and left the condo, walking down the wooden stairs, around to the side of the building where his dark-grey Acura TL sat waiting for him.

As he was about to start the car his cell began to ring, he figured the watch commander was wondering what was ta
king him so long.

“I’m already on my way,” Parks said, by way of a gree
ting. But there was no reply, only silence coming through the other end. “Hello? Hello?” Suddenly he could hear a child’s laughter and then the line went dead. Parks stared at his phone, trying to comprehend what had just occurred, when he figured he had been the object of someone’s practical joke or unintentional butt dial. 

He started the car, checked the address he was going to again, and pulled out, driving north along Beverly Glen t
oward Sunset Boulevard.

After a few miles he turned right, heading east toward Hollywood. Fifteen minutes later he pulled off Sunset onto Crescent Heights, which turned into Laurel Canyon as it snaked its way up the hill, leading high above the city. A few minutes later he pulled off Laurel onto Mulholland Drive,
passing Laurel Hills, driving along the cliffs that overlooked the city below before and arriving at the security gate protecting the more respectable gated community within from the rest of the cesspool-infested world. He flashed his badge at the security guard, who noted it in his logbook. As he did this, Parks noted everything, from the age and physical attributes of the guard to the semi-protective gate and the openness of the area. He wasn’t sure how far away the crime scene actually was, but while the illusion of protection was in full force, the reality of it was a different matter. The guard flipped the switch for the gate to open and waved him on without any further trouble or comment. Parks recalled the first time he had been called to the Paramount Studios lot, where he had been given a map of the grounds. If he got out of here only half as lost and confused as at the movie studio, he figured he’d still need a stiff drink to calm his nerves. Just one of the many benefits of working in Hollywood, though after being on the force for over a decade he was now pretty skilled at maneuvering throughout the various studio lots within his jurisdiction.

A few winding turns later, he finally found the four-bedroom/five-bath modernized, mid-century home atop the hill. The house was three stories, though it only appeared to be two, with the third, lower floor off the side of the hill down below street level.

The house was blocked off by four black-and-whites in the middle of the street on either side of the property. Several neighbors stood gawking and taking photos on digital cameras and cell phones. Parks sighed. These days he didn’t even have to worry about the paparazzi any more. They would simply approach the neighbors and offer a finder’s fee for the photos. In this day and age where anyone had access to a recording device and the Internet, everyone was a freelance photographer for the right price. Nothing was sacred or safe from the public’s scrutiny. He hesitated for a second, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles blanching. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. Flashes of Peter Kozlov coming at him with a razorblade filled his thoughts. It was over with. He had survived and Kozlov was locked up. Hopefully for life. He had nothing to worry about. He had been attacked and injured numerous other times while on the job. PTSD has never affected his abilities before. He simply didn’t work like that. This was just like any other time.

Parks hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath and f
inally exhaled. He grabbed his notebook and exited his car. He looked up to see two news choppers close by, most likely reporting on the murder down below. He slammed his car door shut and started for the house when several reporters rushed him.

Son of a
—Parks caught himself and put on a fake smile.

The first reporter he ran into was Charles Wyler, the lead crime reporter for a quickly rising, independently financed local station.  It was common knowledge that Wyler often blackmailed and harassed his subjects, reporting false info
rmation if it “benefited the public,” all for the “good of the people.” Where other reporters may have held back out of fear or respect, Wyler had no issue with pushing the law to his benefit, which is why other reporters were often at his heels, like jackals waiting to pick at the scraps.

“Detective Parks,” Wyler began as he shoved a micr
ophone in Parks’s face, staying with him step for step. Parks kept his eyes on the house and zoned in on his target without taking the bait. “I see they’ve let you back on the force.”

“I was never off it. Just on vacation.”

“Sure you were. But what’s another corrupt cop on the LAPD?”

Parks hesitated for a second but kept walking toward the crime scene. He wasn’t going to let Wyler get to him. Not on his first day back. But Wyler was relentless. There was a
lways another angle.

“What can you tell us about the murder here?”

Parks smirked at Wyler as if to say, I just got here myself. What do you think I know?

“Detective—”

“No comment at this time,” Parks said calmly as he faced the crowd of reporters. His heart jumped a beat and his whole body froze for a second as he thought he had seen Kozlov standing in the crowd of onlookers. But then a reporter moved, the sun glared in his line of sight and the image was gone.

Don’t be doing this. Not today. Pull yourself together. He’s locked up where he belongs. He’s not coming after you, and what’s more important, the children are safe.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sure Media Relations will have something for you all shortly.”

He lifted the yellow caution tape and walked past two o
fficers who held up their hands to stop the reporters. Parks wasn’t sure as he quickly walked by, but he could have almost sworn he saw judgment and anger in the eyes of the two patrolmen.

“Detective!”

Parks made his way between two of the black-and-whites to find Jake Fairmont, who at thirty-four was the youngest member of his team. Fairmont was holding two cups of coffee while he leaned up against a stone hedge that outlined the driveway leading to the crime scene.

“Heya, boss,” Fairmont called out as he handed off one of the cups then ran a hand through his curly, sun-bleached hair. He turned around and stole another glance at the house behind the Prada sunglasses that were usually on his face or up on his head to hold his hair out of the way. He wore fitted Armani jeans and an equally expensive button-up shirt that was tailored to his lean, muscular body, contrasting nicely with his deep surfer’s tan. He also had on a
navy blue jacket that Parks figured wouldn’t last long with the heat that was forecasted for the day. Thermometers were inching over ninety and it wasn’t even ten yet. The smog had already begun attacking Los Angeles, giving the city a broken-down automobile-and-gasoline smell that made it all the more difficult to breathe.