Hollywood Assassin (14 page)
“Not much fun sleeping in the park.” He found a smile again. “I could use a shower, maybe a warm bed if someone made me an offer.”
“Get a room.”
He managed a chuckle. “So tell me about your visit with Harper.”
I filled him in on everything. We then discussed the producer’s connection to Roger Diamond.
“As I said before, Cassie never mentioned him but she wasn’t one to drop names. Maybe Harper has a secret life. I’ve heard rumors about him being a sex addict.”
I told him I was planning to call Avenal State Prison in the morning. “Once we see who Harper’s in contact with, we may have another lead.” I then told him about finding the initial missing persons report on John Carmichael. I saw that he was glancing in Olive’s side mirror.
“I think we may have some company,” he said.
I now saw the headlights, less than a block behind us.
“Turn at the next street,” Jack said. “Circle the block and let’s see if he follows.”
I did as suggested. We saw the lights disappear and then reappear, this time a little farther back.
“We definitely have someone’s attention.”
“Maybe you should drive to the station?”
I considered the suggestion, but said, “I think I’ll go to the mall. It’s close by, well-lighted. I’ll turn some light on the cockroach.”
“It could be someone looking for me.” He hesitated. “Will you be okay on your own?”
“I’ll circle around through the alley, drop you in the middle of the next block.”
The street was deserted when Bautista got out of the car. He bent down to me.
I couldn’t see his face but sensed he was smiling. “I still haven’t given up on that shower and bed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I sped away and turned onto Highland, again seeing the headlights following at a distance. A few minutes later, I parked Olive at the La Brea Mall. I wanted to see who was following me and thought Bernie might give somebody second thoughts. I secured him in Olive, and walked inside.
I lingered near the entryway before strolling along a row of shops. When I got to a Victoria’s Secret store, a display caught my attention. I had less than twenty dollars in my purse, but that didn’t stop me. I smiled at the realization I was shopping while being stalked—a sure sign of a serious shopping addiction.
I came across a lavender chemise on clearance that I couldn’t resist. I decided if I could scrape together enough for the tax, I might be able to afford it. As I was mining for quarters, I saw a familiar face in the corner of my eye.
The IAD detective was lingering near the store entrance, checking prices in the bra and panty section. I recognized Bill Preston from a training session the brass had put on a couple of years ago. He had a dopey expression on his round face as he waved away a sales clerk.
Inspiration struck. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. I wished that my snoop sister was here to enjoy the proceedings.
I walked directly toward Preston, gathering up several panties and a couple of bras from the display table. I stopped less than five feet from the detective who was turned away from me. I cleared my throat, speaking loud enough so that anyone within ten feet could hear.
“It’s okay Margaret, there’s no need to be shy. Lots of people have sex change operations.”
No response. Preston twisted his big head slightly in my direction, but was still turned away. I walked around the table, facing him directly.
I looked up into the fleshy folds of his face and said, “I know it’s the first time you’ve been shopping since your penis was removed, but try to relax. I’ve brought you some panties and a bra to try on. Once we get you a good foundation, we’ll look for a dress.”
Preston’s pasty complexion turned scarlet. Laughter bubbled up among the patrons around us. The burly cop stammered, “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but you’d better stop.”
I turned to the salesclerk who was also trying to suppress her laughter. “He’s going through such a difficult time. It’s not easy when people still call you a big dick after you’ve been castrated.”
Preston swiveled around and rushed out of the store. I nearly fell into a display rack laughing. I held up a pair of panties and a bra and said to the salesclerk, “Don’t you think Margaret would look great in these?”
The clerk had a big grin and shook her head. “I think maybe he needs something that’s a little less revealing.”
The prisoner is wheeled into the Avenal State Prison administrative hearing room. All eyes turn to Nathan Kane.
The inmate has purposely worn a medical gown to the proceedings to emphasize his disability. He sits low in his wheelchair, making his physical presence small and nonthreatening, like an invalid that has been delivered to the proceedings from a convalescent hospital.
Kane puts on his performance, exhibiting all the classic symptoms of Parkinson’s Dementia. As the minutes pass, his gaze eventually drifts over to his attorney who sits next to him. A whispered inquiry about Bobby Jenson and his girlfriend is made. Melvin Coben nods his head and smiles. Their silence has been purchased.
There are two commissioners on the parole panel. Kane knows all about them. Their parole decisions are a matter of public record. He’s studied their past determinations. Nothing is a sure bet, but he likes his odds with these liberal jurists.
The district attorney’s office has been notified of the hearing as required. Kane is pleased when the commissioners state on the record that no one from the prosecutor’s office is present. His conviction for manslaughter with the possibility of parole is formally read into the record before Melvin Coben rises and calls Dr. Henry Bailey to the stand.
The middle-aged physician with thick gray hair and silver wire-rimmed glasses makes his living testifying in court proceedings. Dr. Bailey spends ten minutes covering his medical expertise before getting to the prisoner’s medical condition and related symptoms.
Coben takes his time questioning the witness, making sure the jurists have a complete picture of his client’s impaired mental functioning. By the time the doctor is through, Kane’s attorney almost believes Dr. Bailey’s testimony. The physician has earned his substantial fee.
Dr. Marsha Wentworth takes the stand next. Coben takes a few minutes going over the psychiatrist’s impressive credentials. He then gets right to the point.
“Dr. Wentworth, in your expert opinion as a psychiatrist for the State of California, is there any risk Mr. Kane poses if he is released to the community?”
The psychiatrist’s tone is professional, without a hint of emotion. Her eyes are fixed on the attorney, never once drifting over to his client. “There is virtually no risk, given his deteriorating medical condition. He will likely spend his remaining days under strict medical supervision.”
“Any chance Mr. Kane’s condition might spontaneously improve?”
“As Dr. Bailey has already testified, Parkinson’s Dementia is a progressive disorder of the central nervous system involving the loss of memory and the impairment of cognitive functions. There are medications that can help with some of the symptoms, but they have not been effective in Mr. Kane’s case.”
Coben folds his arms and asks Wentworth to summarize the patient’s prognosis.
“While there is no imminent danger of death, it is likely Mr. Kane will continue to exhibit a progressive deterioration of his cognitive abilities. Based upon those factors, I would categorize his prognosis as extremely poor.”
“Thank you, Dr. Wentworth.” Coben turns away from the witness, his vision sweeping over the prisoner for a moment. Kane thinks his attorney is about to dismiss the psychiatrist, but Coben turns back to her and says, “On a scale of one to ten, Doctor, with ten being the highest degree of risk, what number on this scale would you assign to Mr. Kane?”
Marsha Wentworth doesn’t hesitate. “Zero. There is no risk.”
Kane is pleased. The good doctor, true to her word, has performed admiringly. Amazing what a little fear and intimidation will do.
After some housekeeping duties, the commissioners begin their summary findings. Ben Walker, the elderly jurist who Kane knows was appointed by the governor nearly a decade earlier, goes first.
“I have concluded, based upon the expert testimony presented today, there is no basis to consider the prisoner an imminent danger to the community if released.” Walker looks at his counterpart. “Any disagreement?”
Commissioner Ann Warren, a retired parole agent, takes a sip of water. She leans back in her chair. Her eyes linger on the prisoner before she speaks.
“While there is no doubt Mr. Kane exhibits signs of mental deterioration, I do have concerns about the serious nature of his offense, which involved the death of another human being.” Warren’s eyes cut to Kane’s attorney. “Despite the testimony presented today, I’m not completely convinced there is no risk to the community.”
Melvin Coben is on his feet, shouting in rebuttal, “Commissioner Warren, my client can barely speak or walk. He has the mental capacity of a five-year-old child and wears a diaper. The issue before this panel is not his crime, but rather his risk to the community given the severity of his medical incapacitation. Mr. Kane is not on trial here and…”
Ben Walker raises a hand and then his voice, silencing Coben’s outburst. “Let’s all calm down. I’d like to adjourn these proceeding and take some additional time to review the records in this case with my associate commissioner.” The jurist checks with the administrative clerk for a date to resume the hearing. “We are continuing this matter for forty-eight hours.”
The commissioners abruptly leave the hearing room.
Melvin Coben collapses back into his chair and sighs. He hesitates, before turning slowly to his client. Nathan Kane’s rage-filled eyes are already locked on the attorney.
His client’s voice is barely controlled—a venomous hiss of rage, “This had better go as we’ve planned or your head will roll.”
The morning after my run-in with Bill Preston, I spent an hour waiting around the Highland Center Mall parking garage to serve a warrant on Stanley Miller. The convicted sex offender had a 290 PC warrant for failure to register his address with the local police. I used the down time to call Avenal State Prison.
“Inmates are allowed to make and receive calls without being monitored,” Patty Washington explained. The clerk sounded more like a reservationist at an upscale hotel than a prison records clerk. “Unless there’s some unusual circumstance, involving a court order, we don’t keep a log of those calls.”
As I made notes, I heard Charlie say, “Miller’s been spotted moving toward us, Kate.”
I nodded and said into the phone, “I’m trying to establish a link to someone who would have started making calls to an inmate around May of 2012. Can you check your admission records and tell me who might have been sentenced or transferred to your institution around that time?”
“I’d be happy to just as soon as we come back on line. Computer problems. If you’d like I can fax or e-mail the information.”
I gave her my e-mail address just as Charlie and I got the go signal over the radio. Chuck Loman, an officer assigned to the taskforce for the day, was on the radio.
“Take down…take down…I’m in pursuit…suspect is running north through the parking garage.”
“Let’s move to the entrance,” Charlie said. “We’ll see if baby boy runs to daylight.”
We took up positions at the parking attendant’s booth with guns drawn, listening to the radio calls.
“He’s moving down…level three is clear…last seen in Section 2-B…”
A delivery truck roared out of the garage. After it passed, I saw that Charlie was motioning to me and counting. “One…two…”
On the count of three, we ran into the garage at the same time we heard footsteps coming around the corner from the upper level. Stanley Miller stopped in his tracks, staring down the barrels of our guns. The wanted man, who was wearing nothing but a diaper, put his hands up.
“Don’t shoot,” Miller screamed, spitting out a pacifier and hitting the pavement at the same time we heard a low rumbling sound.
Charlie cuffed the suspect and jumped back, waving a hand. “I think he just did the dirty squirty, Kate.”
I backed up, trying to keep my distance from the chubby sex offender.
Loman came around the corner. He stopped, trying to catch his breath.
“You’re doing the transport,” Charlie said to Loman. He turned to Miller. “You are one sick fuck.”
It was out of character for Charlie to curse at a suspect. He almost never loses his cool, but Stanley Miller had pushed him to the limit. There’s just something about a grown man who has a fetish that involves hiring underage girls to burp him and change his diapers that pushes all the wrong buttons.
Charlie motioned to the suspect and told Loman, “You can keep the handcuffs as a souvenir. I’d hose the bastard down.”
As we walked back to the cars, we took several deep breaths, trying to clear our senses of Stinky Stanley. I’d held Bernie back, keeping him in Olive due to a sore right leg that I’d noticed last evening. My hairy partner had hurt himself running off and trying to jump a fence to get at an Irish setter.
I told Charlie I was going to check on my mother and come back to the station later that night to watch the Harold Wiener show.
I found Mom at home, propped up on several pillows. She was still swathed in bandages. Her face was badly swollen, eyes and lips grotesquely protruding through the openings in the surgical dressings.
Robin was in a chair next to her bed and said, “Makes me think twice about that chin implant I was considering.”
“Mother, can you hear me?” I touched her hand. There was no response. I turned to Janet Logan who was hovering at the foot of her bed. “Has the doctor been by to check on her?”
“The nurse from the clinic came by early this morning. They increased her medication. I was told the swelling should start to go down by tomorrow.” Janet shook her head. “I’m a little worried. She’s been hallucinating.”
“Margaret Butler’s been with the president again,” Robin explained.
I did an eye roll. “Of all the men down through history that she could fantasize about—Richard Nixon?”
Mother moaned in a slow, guttural way and said, “Now I know why they call you Tricky Dick.”
I turned to Robin. “Medication can be a horrible thing.”
As we began to leave the room, Mom started to moan again and again and again.
Robin looked at me. “I think she’s having an orgasm.”
“God help us,” I said. “We’re scarred for life.” I turned to Janet. “She’s all yours.”
Robin and I found a bottle of Chianti in the fridge. It was only noon. I had to go back to work later, but watching your mother have an orgasm will drive a person to drink.
We settled on the couch as Robin told me the latest, “Clark called me last night.”
“Thank God. What’s been going on?”
“He’s been at Donovan’s ever since the party, just like I thought. I think he and Bon Bon have hooked up, but he denied it.”
Robin’s eyes were glassy. I squeezed his hand.
“I asked him if he was using,” Robin continued. “He said no, but I know he’s lying.”
“I made a few inquiries at the station,” I said. “No one seems to know much about his bodyguard, Zen, but I’m meeting with some narcotics detectives tonight so I thought I’d ask them.”
My brother took a sip of wine. “Clark told me he needs some space, that he’s reassessing his life and relationships.” He looked at me. “Is that bullshit, or what? I’m going back to Donovan’s tomorrow and confronting him face-to-face.”
The last thing my brother needed to do was tangle with Donovan’s bodyguard again. “Do me a favor. Let me talk to the detectives before you do anything. I don’t want you getting into a situation that might be dangerous.”
Robin smiled in a way that reminded me of when he was a boy. “Always the big sister.”
“Always,” I said and kissed his cheek.
***
At eleven that night, I found Chewie Smith and Charlie Riggs in their portable office building typing away on their laptops. The smell of hot coffee hit me when I walked through the door. The trailer was a mess of files, paperwork, and pizza boxes.
Riggs was picking up his cell phone as Chewie said, “Get a cup of coffee and pull up a chair. We’re tuning into the Wiener channel now.”
I poured two packets of sugar into black coffee as Bernie settled in the corner. “Do you think Mr. Wiener can pull this off?” I asked.
Riggs smiled. Thankfully, he must have realized I’d reached my pun capacity. “He’s at PSP now. Jim Baylor is there hooking up the Wiener Cam.” He motioned to the laptop.
I watched as the computer began receiving a signal. The detective said into his phone, “We got game, Jim. Everything is a go.” Riggs checked his watch. “It’s getting late. Let’s send Mr. Wiener into the parking structure now.” He put down the phone. “Let’s just hope the Wiener scores tonight.”
“He better not come up short,” Smith said.
Guess they weren’t finished with the puns. We watched as Harold Wiener began walking through Pro Sports Pavilion, the camera sewn into his shirt recording his every move.
While we waited, I asked about Wolf Donovan’s body guard. “The guy goes by Zen. He’s a body-builder type who likes to wave his gun around.”
Riggs looked at his partner. “Every time I think about that son of a bitch, my toe starts to throb.”
Smith took a bite of pizza and, with his mouth full, said, “Zachary Edward Nolan or Zen…” He swallowed. “Hey we should have a mug.” Riggs began thumbing through a file as Smith continued, “We arrested him last year for possession of meth. The bust went down at Donovan’s estate after a party got out of control.” He worked on his pizza again. “Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”
“I might have been on vacation. I remember hearing something about a disturbance while I was gone, but didn’t make the connection.”
“During Zen’s arrest, my esteemed colleague, Mr. Riggs, suffered a broken toe and was out of action for about four weeks.”
“That fat toad Bon Bon stepped on it during the melee.” Riggs flipped open another file and said, “Bingo.” He held up the mug shot of the bodyguard.
The mug was a more menacing version of the man I’d seen at Club SUK a few days earlier. Zen had dark eyes and a shaved head, except for a long black ponytail in the back. I learned that he was twenty-nine, six feet two, and two hundred twenty pounds. Perfect bully dimensions. I couldn’t imagine Robin confronting him.
I handed the mug back to Riggs. “Karate kid on steroids.”
“Yeah, but this kid is not only using, he’s also selling drugs. He beat the rap only because Donovan hired the best lawyer money can buy. Hung the jury. He’s bad news.”
“I think Mr. Wiener is getting close to some action,” Smith said, motioning to the laptop.
We watched as the camera recorded a group of men standing near a silver Mercedes. Harold Wiener said something by way of a greeting as a tall man arrived.
“That’s Robinson,” Riggs said.
The camera panned around. I was a little concerned about the quality of the images in the dim parking garage. The recording would be the key piece of evidence in any prosecution.
I also began to worry when Harold Wiener opened his mouth. Our informant was trying to fit in, but was obviously nervous.
The camera moved closer to the basketball star. Small talk about the night’s game was exchanged. Wiener then said, “Can you help me out tonight?”
Robinson smiled down into the camera. “Bad timing little man. Things are tight.”
Wiener persisted, but his request was again denied. Robinson became upset. The camera’s lens came closer to the basketball star as he went off on our informant. “I got nothing for you,” Robinson said. “Get away from me.”
“Shit,” Riggs said. “He’s blowing it.”
Wiener’s voice pitched higher, his desperation surfacing. “Please help me out, just this once. I’ve got to score something or I’m in trouble.”
“Idiot.” Riggs fumed.
The camera then caught angry images of Joaquin Robinson saying, “This is a setup.”
Muffled sounds. The camera panned wildly around. Robinson could be seen getting into his car.
The scene shifted again, the camera moving in the basketball star’s direction. Robinson rolled up his window, nearly catching his pursuer’s fingers.
More images swam across the screen. Our informant was circling the car. The scene then went dark.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I think Robinson’s got a Wiener on top of his car,” Smith said. “He’s driving a Wienermobile.”
We heard a revving engine, squealing tires.
Riggs had kept his phone open and asked, “What’s going on, Jim?”
As reports came back from the detective in the parking garage, Riggs repeated what he heard, acting like a play-by-play announcer at a strange sporting event. A Wiener round-up?
“Wiener is on top of Robinson’s car…they’re speeding through the parking garage…there’s a lot of screaming, crying…the car has stopped…Robinson is peeling Mr. Wiener off the car…Robinson has taken off again…our informant is on the pavement, wailing like a baby.”
Riggs turned to us. “What the hell should we do now?”
“Put him back in cuffs and take him to jail,” Smith said. “I knew the idiot couldn’t pull this off.”
A few moments later, Riggs ended his call and said, “Mr. Wiener is back in custody. He’s crying like a baby, wet his pants.”
I stood and stretched, then gathered up Bernie who was sound asleep in a corner of the office. “Sorry this didn’t go as we hoped. Better luck next time.”
I was headed for the door when I heard Riggs say to Smith, “I wonder if Diamond was Robinson’s runner? It would explain the supply problem.”
I stopped and turned back to them. “Did you just say the name Diamond?”
“Yeah, Roger Diamond,” Riggs said. “Mid-level dealer who supplied some of the local users before he turned up dead last week.”
I was quiet, wheels turning.
“You okay, Kate?” Smith asked.
I smiled at the detectives. “My day just got a whole lot better.”