L. A. Stalker
L. A. Stalker
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Meet Pandora Collins, Hollywood bombshell. The sex-addicted movie star has a problem; someone is stalking her. A twisted, demented psychopath no one can stop, not even the detectives of LAPD’s crack stalker detail. In a fit of desperation, she takes the law into her own hands. She hires someone to take care of her stalker.

A trained assassin.

A killer without remorse.

But Pandora soon learns that the cure she called upon is worse than the disease.

From the award-winning author of Undercover White Trash and In The Way That Elephants Do comes a thought-provoking tale of sex, murder, love and redemption in the City of Angels.

The Pacific Coast Highway was busy even at midnight. The Hollywood in-crowd was busy shuffling back and forth between the dozens of parties that go on in Malibu and Topanga every night. Dora sped through the traffic as fast as she could. Seeing the narrow turnoff, she pulled quickly into the beachfront edition. Like she had done a hundred times before, she found a spot to park about a half-block from Bobby's beach house. She locked up the Porsche and started walking, adjusting her short skirt down a little in the cool night air.

Bobby's four-million-dollar house sat at the end of a row of boxy houses, each designed by one of the city's hip young architects. Unlike all of the others, Bobby had replaced most of the glass in his place with solid walls; he didn't want the world to see everything that went on in there. Paid for with the laundered profits of a hundred thousand drug deals, privacy was vital to him. Being the dealer to the stars made him a very popular man with federal law enforcement, yet they had never been able to make a case on him. Dora pushed the intercom button at the gate.

"Yes," Bobby's voice answered.

"It's Dora."

The gate clicked open and she went inside. It closed automatically behind her. A short flight of stairs went up to a landing of Italian marble. Glass bricks glowed from the light within the house. She saw a figure pass behind them.

"Sweetie," Bobby said as he opened the door. "Never expected to see you here again." She went inside and Bobby locked the door behind her. He gave her a warm embrace. She held her arms by her side. "You’re looking good," he said.

"So are you, Bobby," she replied, taking off her jacket. Bobby was a big man, at least a foot taller than her. His California tan set in sharp contrast to his pale blue eyes. He was wearing a thin silk robe. Dora noted his ripped calves. There was a new tattoo on one of them: a Yin-Yang sunburst job. "You're still working out, I see."

"Every day, honey," he said, taking her jacket and hanging it on a stainless steel rack.

She descended into the spacious living room. An eclectic mix of furniture, some kitschy fifties-era ultramodern together with a few custom designer pieces, were carefully placed around the room by someone who knew what they were doing. Bobby had no problem hiring the best decorators; he had money to burn. A red metal fireplace stood in the corner, crackling a warm and toasty fire.

"Can I get you a drink?" Bobby asked.

"Sure. Scotch neat."

"Just like old times."

"Not like old times, Bobby."

Bobby went over to a mirrored bar and poured two drinks. He brought them over to her as she stood by a window overlooking the beach.

"So what brings you here?" Bobby asked, taking a sip.

"I need a favor."

"Ah, a favor. Need a couple of lines to get over the hump?"

"I quit that stuff a long time ago," Dora said, swallowing a mouthful of Canada’s finest.

"So what do you need old Bobby for?" he asked, stepping a little closer to her.

"Just a referral."

"A referral? What am I, an HMO?"

"I remember you telling me that you knew people."

"I know lots of people." Bobby inched closer. Dora could smell Bobby’s French cologne. A scent that she knew intimately at one time. A scent that took her back. Back to the good times. The back of her neck started to grow warm.

"I need the name of a special person."

Bobby put his hand on Dora's shoulder. She moved it away, so he moved it up toward her face. Sensations she hadn't felt in a long time flowed through her as he caressed her cheek softly. He knew just what to do; he always did.

His hand felt to her waist and pulled her closer to him. She felt his taut chest pressing against her. Her left hand reflexively went around him and he spun her around to face him. Looking into those cold blue eyes was like looking into the Devil himself. She parted her lips and kissed him hard on the mouth. He put down his drink and put both hands around her waist, pulling her tighter into him. She felt his hardness pushing onto her stomach, and she wrapped both arms around his neck. His hands went under her skirt and grabbed her ass, almost lifting her off the ground.

"I just need a name, Bobby, just a name," she whispered as he kissed her neck.

"We have time for that later," he said as he stepped away and took her hand. He led her across the room to a leather couch. Sitting her down in it, he removed his robe. She put her hands on his hard, tan thighs...

The noise of the surf was almost deafening. The figure in black crouched in the shadow cast by the overhang, protected from the vibrant light of a full moon. Light poured from the patio door, so he avoided walking in front of it. A redwood banister four feet high ran completely around the split-level deck. He followed it around the side of the house where the deck came to a sudden end. A few feet past the rail was one of the house's few windows, a big look-at-me-I-have-a-view-of-the-beach window. The window was virtually flush with the wall; no sill on which to hang. Above it about six feet was the shale roof. Below it was a twenty-foot back-breaking drop to the sand.

The man in black took off his small backpack and removed a harness from it. He snapped it on firmly but silently. Next from the bag came two nylon straps with oversized adjusting buckles. He attached the ends to the harness with a carabiner and looped the other ends around the banister, locking those into the carabiner as well. He climbed onto the banister and leaned out toward the window, allowing the straps to hold his weight. Adjusting the straps a little so he could lean out farther, he stretched out in front of the window.

Peering gingerly around the corner, he saw that no one was standing there. He loosened the buckles a bit and leaned out further. The entire room was now visible. And there in the middle of the room was what he was looking for.

The Demon Goddess was there, her hot body straddling her boy toy on the couch, pumping him for everything she was worth. Sweat glistened on her thigh-high stockings.

The man in black had hit pay dirt tonight.

David Kilpatrick has an eighteen-year history of dealing with sex offenders and their victims. He supervises the Presentence Investigation Unit of the Tarrant County, Texas adult probation department. He lectures on sex offenders and other criminal justice topics to universities, parent-teacher organizations, and civic groups. He has written training manuals on the investigation, analysis, and supervision of offenders.

He is the award-winning author of four novels: In the Way That Elephants Do, Undercover White Trash, Cuqui, and L.A. Stalker. His passion is writing, and he is currently working on two more novels.

Visit his web site to see his work:
You can email him directly at:


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