If this letter ever finds its way into your hands, please feel free to read it on the air, at my sentencing, or during my funeral, whichever comes first.
First of all, I'm the kick-ass blonde with the complete story inside L.A.P.D. Hollywood, so you can stop pretending that person is you. While you are very good at cornering child molesters with severe dental issues, you couldn't have spewed more nonsense about my roommate's murder investigation if you'd been the one whose face and body were found in two separate rooms.
Now that we've got that cleared up, I may have information that the late stripper, drug smuggler and jewel thief -- who got herself killed and dismembered in two unrelated incidents -- was also a secret FBI informant. See, the board-certified freak responsible for the surgical disposal of the body up and hanged himself in custody -- but the real murderer is totally still at large. Since the cops seem to think I might have seen something, or even done something, it's looking more and more like I'm next.
The thing is, some of the cops might be crooked themselves -- including this one big lug I used to date for protection. I figured him for the jealous type when he went and beat the tar out of this reporter friend of mine who was onto him -- sending the poor bastard packing who knows where. But lately I'm thinking there's got to be more to it than that. Way more.
I know what you're thinking, Nancy. This gal's not smart enough to end up knowing too much. Well, duh, that's why I'm on the run. That plus I accidentally shot my boss (who I'm sort of in love with) for the way he's been holding out on me. I still don't know if he made it, but either way the big jerk is married to some big muckety muck with the feds who appears to be batshit crazy. Put it this way, she'd do just about anything to get her man elected to public office -- even if it means shipping him out of town in the company of an inconvenient little actress type who can't corroborate her theory of the case. Oh, and she's also keeping the lid on some police hit squad catering to the mob right under the captain's nose.
Okay, so I don't have a shred of evidence about any of this, since I got most of it off the record from a lovelorn lesbian junior agent who drinks. She's hot for my boss's wife, so the two of us made out one night in a bondage club to lick our wounds, so to speak. (Please tell my pops I'm not that way, when and if all this comes out. Tell him they just plain do stuff different in Hollywood).
Nancy, I wish I could promise you the captain is one of the good guys, but the fact is we might have committed a tiny little felony together by covering up the botched homicide report that ended up fingering the suicidal serial killer. 
What did I know from obstruction of justice, let alone setting the wrong maniac loose? I was just another down-on-my-luck car show hostess tired of working as a naked maid who landed herself a fancy day job with government benefits. Part of me thinks I have to find a way to warn the captain -- about what, exactly, I don't know. The other part thinks it's time to wake up.
I'm not sure if I masterminded my own escape from a Mexican prison or negotiated a release fair and square, what with the language barrier and all. So anyway I'm either an escaped felon or a low budget tourist, depending on your perspective. There's still a chance I can get out of this mess alive -- along with six million dollars worth of smuggled diamonds the dead stripper's ghost left me in a dream. 
Right now that's not looking so good, since the Mexicans have first dibs, and also I'm locked in the ladies' bathroom outside some creepy roadside cantina somewhere south of the border. The people outside keep trying to kick in the door and I think one of them just went for a shotgun, so maybe I should think about the window.Vaya con dios,
"C"
