Hollywood Assassin (8 page)
“Let me get this straight,” Kane says into the cell phone. “You have no idea where Bautista’s hiding and we still have to deal with the female cop.”
It’s after midnight. The orderly has left him alone in his room with the phone after extracting a commitment for more drugs and money. Down the dimly lit hallway there’s a drone of hospital equipment and the muffled voices of overnight staff.
The man on the line hesitates, says, “We think he’s still in the area. As for Sexton, she would have come forward by now if she had any information. She’s also under investigation for interfering with the arrest.”
“You
think
he’s still in the area.” Kane’s hushed voice shakes with anger. “I want him dead, now. No loose ends.”
“Okay, relax…we’re doing everything we can. We already took care of that other matter we discussed.”
“And the female cop?”
“She’ll get the message.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“A fatal accident will be arranged.”
Before ending the call, Kane makes sure that he has his own message across. Bautista is to be dead within forty-eight hours or he will take the matter into his own hands when he’s released.
After returning the phone, Kane sleeps until six. He breakfasts in the inmate cafeteria where he displays all the practiced symptoms of Parkinson’s dementia. Two hours later, the morning shift orderly walks him to the psychiatrist’s office and leaves.
Dr. Marsha Wentworth rises, closes the door behind the orderly, and returns to her desk. There’s no eye contact. Her hands shake as she sifts through his file. How ironic.
It’s been two days since the psychiatrist agreed to cooperate. The terror of finding her daughter’s bloody clothing was all she needed. Fear is a powerful motivator. Wentworth agreed to say nothing and meet him again prior to the parole hearing.
“I have your report almost ready,” the doctor says, continuing to look down.
“Almost is not good enough, Marsha.”
Her green eyes come up to meet his. She’s been crying. Is she truly convinced there’s no option other than to cooperate? There’s no room for error now. Perhaps a little more persuasion is in order.
“Let’s talk about your daughter,” Kane begins. He leans over her desk. His voice is now clear and harsh. There’s none of the prior whispered, strained qualities he’s feigned for so long. “Marianne is seven years old. She’s in the third grade at Washington Elementary. Her favorite subjects are spelling and art. At recess she plays with her best friend, Gayle. Your daughter has asthma. If she doesn’t use her inhaler…”
“Stop, please.” Tears fill the psychiatrist’s eyes. “You already convinced me. Just give me your word you won’t harm my daughter.”
Nathan Kane reaches over and pats the psychiatrist’s knee. He smiles as she flinches. The shrink is wearing a blue skirt. His big hand lingers on her long, slender leg.
“I have my people watching Marianne as we speak. One wrong move and she dies.”
Wentworth cries out again, “Please don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything. I have money and…”
“You have my word, Marsha. I won’t harm your daughter if I’m convinced that you will cooperate.”
The psychiatrist brushes away her tears. “The report is with my supervisor. I can show it to you tomorrow.”
“Considering the stakes, I expect you will keep your word. Let’s plan on meeting at the same time tomorrow.”
The psychiatrist stands and begins to walk toward the door.
“Wait.” The prisoner’s harsh voice stops her. “I said I need to be convinced you will cooperate.”
She turns, trailing a hand that brushes tears again. “What more do you want?”
Kane stands. He walks over to Marsha Wentworth. The drawstring on his prison issued uniform is released. The trousers fall to the floor. He takes the woman into his powerful arms, pushing her down onto her knees.
“You need to be completely convincing, Marsha. Make this your best performance ever. Marianne’s life depends on it.”
The next evening I picked up Natalie and we drove to Van Nuys for our meeting with Roger Diamond. I’d spent the day serving warrants on gang members in Huntington Park.
As Olive sputtered to a stop, I yawned. “Sure hope this meeting is productive.”
“If the tosser doesn’t cooperate we might have to lean on him,” Natalie said.
My snoop sister, true to her word, had dressed for the part. She hit the street wearing a gray London Fog trench coat and a double-brimmed black-and-white hat. Maybe she was expecting Jack the Ripper. Maybe she’d pull out one of those curved smoking pipes. Better that than a pistol.
“Great outfit,” Pearl said to Natalie when we greeted him in front of Diamond’s house.
The neighborhood was a cluster of smaller older homes, probably built in the 1950s. The street was deserted. Most of the working class inhabitants were probably already in bed.
Natalie reached into her pocket. I held my breath. “Don’t worry, no weapons, just brought me a lookin’ glass in case there’s some evidence.” She held out a magnifying glass for our inspection.
I sighed. Maybe bringing Natalie into the case had been a mistake. Roger Diamond’s interview could be a game changer, increasing the stakes. I would never forgive myself if anything bad happened to my youthful friend.
I heard a low-pitched whine and looked down at Bernie. My skin prickled. I bent down, my hand finding my partner’s head.
“What is it, Bernie?”
He nuzzled me, offering up his wet nose. The cry persisted.
I stood back up and said to the others, “Bernie only acts like this when something bad is about to happen. He has a sixth sense of sorts.”
Kramer bent down and reached out toward the dog. After some more muzzle love, Bernie settled down. “Let’s hope we’re not in for an earthquake. Had a dog once that started acting up back in ’91, just before the big one hit.”
I turned to Natalie. “I want you to wait here until everything is secured.”
“Oh, stop worrying, Kate. Let’s see if Mr. Big Dick answers the door. If there’s any sign of shenanigans I’ll hightail it back to Olive and wait unless you give me a Code Six Adam.” She looked at Pearl. “Copper talk for an officer needs assistance with an investigation, in case you forgot.”
Pearl tugged on an earlobe. There was a hint of a smile. “Thanks for the refresher.”
We walked up the driveway. Bernie’s whine came back, cranked up a notch.
The home was a single story, painted a drab shade of brown and gray. The lawn was dead. Unread newspapers were piled on the porch. A sign on the door read, No Solicitors. Maybe this was Diamond’s porn pad, used for filming.
Pearl rang the doorbell. We waited. There was no answer after a second ring and a knock. He moved to the side yard, returned a moment later and said, “Found a door unlocked. I knocked but still no answer. Starting to get a bad feeling, like Bernie.”
The whine persisted. Pearl pulled his gun. “I’ll go on in if you’ll watch my back.”
I gloved up, brushed back my blazer and unholstered.
Natalie’s pupils dilated, she stepped back. “I’ll stay in Olive until you give me a signal.”
I followed Kramer with Bernie on his leash.
Once inside, we worked quickly, giving the rooms a onceover before I stepped outside again. I gave Natalie the all clear signal. She walked up the driveway and met me. I tossed her a pair of latex gloves and said, “Don’t touch anything.”
The kitchen was full of dirty dishes, untouched for several days.
Natalie grimaced. “Bloke’s messier than Clyde.”
Despite the house being deserted, Bernie’s whine continued.
We found several empty beer cans on the coffee table in the living room. Photographs above the fireplace showed a man, probably Diamond, with a couple of different women, maybe actresses. The house had a musty, dirty smell that was familiar to me. Charlie had a name for the odor—felony funk.
We circled back to the master bedroom where Bernie’s whine abruptly ceased. He stopped in front of the walk-in closet we’d searched earlier and looked up to me.
I tossed the closet again. It was full of empty boxes, shoes, dirty laundry. At the back of the closet, I found something else—a dead body.
“I think we’ve found Mr. Diamond,” I said to the others, stepping back and revealing a subject that matched the man in the living room photographs.
Kramer was at my side, Natalie right behind.
I stated the obvious, “Shot through the head.”
Natalie put it another way, “The bastard’s deader than a bird in a cuckoo clock.”
Diamond’s body had been wedged into the back of the closet and covered with a blanket, explaining why we had missed it in our earlier cursory search. The body had not begun to decompose but rigor had set in.
Natalie looked through her magnifying glass and referenced the entry wound, “Not much of a hole. Musta been a pea shooter. I’ve seen zits worse than that.”
Pearl pointed to the splatter on the wall. “The exit wound is in the back of the head. That’s where the damage shows.”
Natalie now saw the brains and blood. “Looks a bit like the time me dad chopped off a chicken’s head. Right mess it was.”
Guess, my snoop sister wasn’t squeamish.
I did a quick survey of the bedroom after again warning Natalie not to touch anything. The bed was unmade. There were several DVDs and video tapes next to the television, including some X-rated movies. A few classics were also in the stack.
Dancing with Wolves. Valentino
. Both Oscar winners. Maybe Diamond had harbored illusions about becoming a mainstream filmmaker.
I was about to leave the room when I noticed a couple of unmarked DVDs. On a hunch I decided to take them with me before motioning for the others to follow me outside.
Back on the driveway, we made plans to meet in a parking lot a couple of blocks over.
After we reassembled at a strip mall, I sucked in some air; tried to focus my thoughts. Our informal investigation into the death of Cassie Reynolds had just become complicated. We now had a dead body and no way to explain our being at the crime scene. If we called it in, I would be up to my eyeballs in more trouble with IAD. I explained my predicament to Pearl and Natalie.
“How about I call it in anonymously?” Pearl suggested. “We didn’t touch anything and there’s nothing that can tie us to the scene. RHD can take things from here.”
Natalie rested her hand on my shoulder, agreeing. “Wouldn’t want you to be in shit-soup and a pile of poop, sistah.”
I smiled at her, thought about the prostitute, Mo, who had led us to Diamond. “Any luck locating Cassie’s pimp, Maurice Simpson?”
Natalie shook her head. “He’s more slippery than a snake in a pot of grease. Nowhere to be found, but I haven’t given up.”
“Guess we owe a nod to Bernie,” Pearl said, running a hand through his fur. My whiney partner gave him a tail wag. Pearl looked at me. “It seems like somebody wants to keep a thirty-year-old secret real bad.”
I tugged on Bernie’s leash, preparing to leave. “It’s time we shined a light on that dirty little secret.”
The next day, Bernie and I arrived at Yamashiro’s Restaurant at noon for lunch with Mom and Sis. As Olive rattled to a stop, I glanced at my partner in the rearview mirror. I sighed and said, “Ready for battle?”
I’d spent the morning pushing paper and heard that RHD caught the Roger Diamond murder investigation. Professional hit. No suspects. No link between Diamond and Cassie Reynolds, far as I knew. Okay by me.
I checked my hair in Olive’s mirror. Bernie waited. The frizzies, in all their glory, stared back at me.
“Shit. Why can’t I for once have a good hair day?” I caught Bernie’s reflection. “Is that too much to ask?” He was probably not the best guy for hair advice. My dog is a follicle free-for-all.
Yamashiro’s was located in the Hollywood Hills above Grauman’s. Because it was on a bluff, it offered great views. To the south was the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel built in the 1920s—Marilyn’s haunt. I’m not sure why the ghost of the dead actress chose the Rosie. Farther west was Rodeo Drive. 90210 meant Fendi, Hermes, Versace. Eastward, the noonday sun lit up the Hollywood sign.
As I walked toward the restaurant entrance, I caught sight of myself in the windows. I’d tried on three outfits that morning, settled on a chestnut suede leather blazer, matching calf-length skirt, and tall suede boots.
A slow exhale and my shoulders sagged. Wrong choice. Dressing to impress is one thing. Dressing for your mother and disapproving little sister is another.
“The dog is not permitted,” the maître d announced as we entered.
I pointed to the collar badge, showed my credentials. After a whispered discussion, we were allowed entry. Not the first time I’d done battle over my partner’s pedigree.
I was shown to the table where my sister, Amanda, was already seated. We exchanged hugs, air kisses, fake smiles.
I took in my sister’s pale blue Moschino suit with polished silver buttons. Gray leather pumps and a matching Gucci handbag perfectly coordinated the perfectly expensive ensemble. A three-hundred dollar haircut and what was probably a recent facial completed the look. Amanda, two years my junior, came across like something out of
Vogue
. I looked like a Wal-Mart ad.
“You look divine,” Amanda lied as we eased down, my back to the wall. It’s a cop thing. Keep the crowd in view. Nice place. White china. Linen and flowers. Koi ponds and gardens.
I reciprocated the compliment and asked, “Where’s Mother? Don’t tell me she’s late?” A family joke. Mom’s always late.
“She texted me a minute ago. Stuck in traffic.”
I gave Bernie the hand signal to settle in the corner. It was apparently Amanda’s signal to criticize. “I see you’re still traveling with the hairball.”
“Speaking of hairballs, how’s my worthless brother-in-law?” Okay, I didn’t say it exactly that way. I’d mustered all my tact, left out a few key words.
“Geoff’s in London again, meeting with the attorneys. We’re about to close on another apartment complex. Just another mega-deal.”
Mega-bullshit. Geoffrey Keating had spent the better part of this century squandering his inheritance. Of course, keeping your spouse in Versace and Cartier and vacationing in Aspen and Nice pinched the budget.
We glanced at menus and ordered drinks—water for me, a Juniper Crush for Amanda. My sister then played the sympathy card, “I was devastated to hear about you and Doug. He’s such an outstanding person—one of a kind. I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.”
One of a kind asshole. Why was Amanda the only person in my family who got along with my ex? Maybe assholes had some kind of weird magnetic force—anal attraction?
“Is the divorce final?” Amanda asked.
“Single, almost a year.”
My sister brought out a verbal match and held it to my impulse control fuse. “Too bad. Don’t supposed there’s anyone on the horizon?”
I was about to say,
why would you suppose that
? when our mother blew out the match. “Sorry I’m late,” Mom said, arriving at our table. “I had an appointment with Dr. Rasheed.”
My mother, or Miss Daisy, as she prefers to be called lately, wore a beltless purple and red safari skirt and Birkenstocks—think Hollywood meets Woodstock. At five feet six, Mom’s three inches shorter than me. Her brown, sometimes frizzy, hair was fading to gray. I sighed. My future?
After more air kisses, Mom turned to Amanda. “Did you tell her yet?”
The server arrived. We ordered: a sashimi salad for me; house rolls, consisting of something called a reclining Buddha for Amanda, and roasted shishito for Mom.
“Mom’s having a little work done,” Amanda said, ending the suspense.
“What?” Our mother routinely disapproved of surgery to alter what she called, “gifts of the great spirit.” She proved the point by seldom wearing makeup.
Mom’s cheeks reddened. A giggle. “A little minor facial sculpting here and there. It’s really just a tune up.”
“Mom’s worried about her appearance,” Amanda explained. “She’s starring in one of her performance art pieces. It’s a New Year’s Eve exhibition.”
“I’m going to be nude,” Mother said, her voice lowering.
“Spare me the details,” I said. “I don’t want to have to arrest my own mother for being nude in public.”
“Not to worry, dear. It’s going to be in New York in Central Park. We’re spelling out
PIECE ON EARTH
. I get to be the letter A.”
My mother—the human letter A. Help me, great spirit!
Mom went on about her upcoming performance before changing the subject, “I’m sponsoring an actor’s workshop on the Westside. I’m looking for anyone who might be interested in acting and thought about Natalie.”
“I’ll mention it to her. Natalie’s always up for a new challenge.”
After lunch was served, we discussed nude art, skiing in the Alps, and local celebrity sightings, before I got down to business. “Robin and Clark are engaged. They’re planning to marry next spring. They’d like you both to attend.”
“Wonderful,” Mom said, smiling and turning to Amanda. Instead of a reclining Buddha, my sister looked like she’d swallowed a mouthful of tacks.
Amanda said, “My brother is planning on marrying another man. Let’s see, does that make him the bride?”
I didn’t respond. Mother took up the cause, telling my sister that she thought Robin and Clark made a good match, before she went down in flames.
“I’m sure Geoffrey and I will be out of the country,” Amanda went on. “We will be springing in Southern France.”
Springing? I’ve heard of wintering, but springing? “Robin wants you there for support, Amanda. Being there doesn’t mean you’re giving your approval to anything. It’s about showing your love and respect for our brother.”
“I’ll be unable to attend.” Amanda grimaced. “I have no desire to watch two men kiss in public.”
I tried one more time. “This is a matter of lending emotional support, not your personal desires or opinion.”
The grimace became a snarl. “Robin needs psychiatric help.”
My impulse control cork blew. “If anyone needs a psychiatrist it’s you!”
Amanda’s face contorted until she looked like Bernie before he bites. “I’m not the one who’s in divorce court and living with a dog above an appliance store.”
Like a credit card, my sister had just maxed out her verbal spending limit.
“No, you’re married to an idiotic little asshole who won’t be happy until he’s spent the last nickel he inherited. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life. And you’re a bigoted, egotistical bore, just like your husband.”
Amanda tossed her napkin onto the table. “I don’t have to take this shit,” she huffed, then flounced out of the restaurant.
I was upset. I must have been out of my mind. What was I thinking? I’d let my sister leave without paying her share of the bill.
Mother and I settled the tab as she tried to excuse Amanda’s outburst.
On the way to our cars, Mom said, “I’ve been having these dreams about the president, Kate.” She smiled up at me, her frizzy gray-and-brown hair swirling in the afternoon breeze. “We’ve been having sex.”
“I think he’s married, Mom.”
“No. I’m talking about one of the dead presidents.”
“Sorry. I’ve had a trying week. I’m not up for a necrophilia discussion.”
“You don’t understand…”
“Gotta run. Call you later.”
Bernie and I sprinted for Olive. My sister was a bigoted, intolerant snob. My mother was a nudist psychic, who dreamt of having sex with the dead.
I wondered if there was a state where you could put your family up for adoption.