Hollywood Assassin (10 page)
Charlie and I spent the following day serving warrants with Hollenbeck Division. We often partnered with officers in other divisions, clearing the warrant backlist. During the shift, I’d filled him in on our meeting with Monica Benson. I got the daddy death stare and more warnings.
At the end of the day, Bernie settled at my feet in the squad room, while my less hairy other partner slurped up a foot-long hotdog smothered in mustard and relish. We each had a stack of messages.
“Attorney…attorney.” I crumpled up the first two slips, tossed them. My equation: FTA equals jail, the crook’s mouthpiece be damned.
Charlie washed the dog down with his favorite pink diet drink, then handed me a message. “Mr. Wiener sends his greetings.”
I read the jail kite aloud for the entertainment value. “I need to see deetektive Kate Sexton. It is very emportent. I have enformateshun to give her.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you drop out of school in the ninth grade,” Charlie said. “I gotta feeling when he gets out, Mr. Wiener will either be working fast food or selling drugs again.”
“He’s already taken the fast food route. Read in his file that he worked for Mr. Crusty’s Pizza. They had him dress up as a pizza slice, stand on a street corner with a sign.”
“I love their pizza.”
“Just remember, that slice of pepperoni once had a Harry Wiener in it.” I glanced at the kite again, deliberating. “You don’t suppose there’s anything to this? Wiener’s been persistent.”
Charlie shrugged. “Probably just lonely. Wouldn’t waste my time.” A jaw rub. He took a candy bar out of his drawer. I could tell from our years working together that something was bothering him. His usual blank stare bordered on resignation.
“What’s going on, Charlie? You seem stressed.”
“Irma’s counselor called. She got suspended for cutting classes.”
“It happens. I spent a few days of my senior year in high school serving detention.”
“It’s that B-Boy she’s been seeing.”
“B-Boy?”
“He’s a rap singer or something. Can’t understand anything he says.” Charlie took a bite of his Almond Joy. “Do you know what a wet broom is?”
“Never heard the expression,” I lied.
“Guy’s always walking around singing that kinda shit.” He swallowed. Another jaw rub. “Irma’s with him all the time.” He lowered his voice. “I think B-Boy stands for Big Boy. I also think they might be having sex, Kate.”
“You need to talk to her. Make sure she’s using protection.”
“Geeze. Protection. How the hell am I supposed to ask her about that?”
I had no idea but tried to sound reassuring. “Just be direct. She needs to know you care. You need to know she’s being careful.”
I was worried. My partner had told me that his blood pressure was out of control. It couldn’t be easy trying to be both mother and father to a teenager.
His phone rang and I busied myself checking my schedule for tomorrow.
When he hung up, I got the daddy death stare. “That was Dorothy Velasquez from the Tower. She says Preston and Blaylock have been assigned the internal. Drake is moving forward.”
I felt my own blood pressure rising. “Guess I’d better contact The Protective League.” The League provided officers with legal representation during disciplinary investigations.
“They’ll probably set you up with that idiot Jimmy Chester as a rep. I’d call in my own attorney if it was me. Tim Penny said he used Whittler and somebody for that excessive force beef he was facing.”
“Whittler and Meyers.” The law firm was known for aggressively defending officers that had run afoul of the department. “I’ll consider it,” I said, easing up and putting on my coat. “Just as soon as I win the lottery.”
***
It was after seven by the time Bernie and I got home. I walked over to the window to pull the drapes closed while I listened to a message from Sara Johnson.
“The dating group will be meeting in the Pacific Room at the Standard Hotel,” Sara said. “Tomorrow’s event is called Dark Dating. I think you’ll love it. See you there.”
I cursed Robin for getting me into this. What the hell was Dark Dating? I began closing the drapes and noticed a man getting out of a car up the street. Dark coat. Baseball cap. Rain misted as he stood on the sidewalk. He looked directly up into my window, then reached into his pocket.
My phone rang. I heard Jack Bautista say, “How about meeting me at Graciano’s in ten minutes?” I realized the wanted detective was on the sidewalk outside my apartment.
“You buy the drinks, I’ll bring the cuffs.”
“You always were a tease. I think it’s time we celebrated.”
“Celebrated what?”
“It’s been almost a week since we began having phone sex.”
“If that’s what you’ve been doing you’d better keep your hands where I can see them, Bautista.” He moved up the sidewalk, hands splayed at his side. “You thinking of turning yourself in?”
“Meet me in the back booth at the bar in ten minutes. Your call. I’ll go quietly if that’s your decision.” The line went dead as he turned the corner.
I found a brush in the bathroom, cursing what the rain had done to my hair while considering his offer. If I did meet Bautista and failed to arrest him, it would violate the department’s policy. If anyone found out, I would be facing certain discipline, not that I wasn’t anyway. But this was a bridge. If I crossed it, there would be no turning back.
I gave up on the hair, found a knit cap in the closet, and my coat.
I said to Bernie, “If anyone asks, I was in bed all night—alone.”
Bernie yawned and curled up in the hallway. Sometimes it’s great having a silent partner.
Graciano’s had opened about six months earlier and was still being discovered. Tuscany theme. Travertine and texture. A walk-in wine bar. Subdued lighting and Vivaldi. Great place, even if I was meeting a guy wanted for murder.
I had no trouble finding Bautista in the back of the restaurant. I eased into the booth and said, “Just so you know I haven’t made up my mind about arresting you.”
A smile. Brown eyes tinged with red. “Just so you know I look lousy in an orange jumpsuit.”
He held up his beer, pushed Zin across the table toward me. “To freedom,” he said, lifting his glass.
There was something easy, nonthreatening in his manner. Jack Bautista was attractive in a rough, undisciplined way, something most women found appealing in a man. I pushed the thought away. We clinked glasses.
“So why are we here, Jack?”
“Just want to see where things stand. I’m getting a little tired of looking over my shoulder and eating in soup kitchens.”
“I thought Charlie was your snitch.”
“I haven’t talked to him in a few days. I decided to back off, Kate, give you some room.”
“About time.” I took a few minutes to fill him in on the case. He told me he’d never heard of Excite Entertainment or Monica Benson. “Did Cassie ever mention Roger Diamond?”
“Not once, but Cassie was her own person. She was what I call a secret-keeper.”
“Come again?”
“Cassie didn’t trust easily, especially cops. I think it took a lot for her to call me about her father.”
“What about Conrad Harper? Did she ever mention him?”
“A major player like Harper would have been hard for anyone to keep quiet about, but she never brought his name up.”
“Any idea why Cassie would walk off the set of one of their dirty movies?”
He rubbed a hand across his unshaven cheek. “Hard to say. I know something was bothering her before she died. Maybe it was what she knew about her father, maybe something else.”
The waiter arrived. Jack ordered another beer. When we were alone again, he said, “If Diamond was pressuring Cassie to act in his movie, it could be that’s what was eating at her.”
I twisted the stem of my wine glass between my fingers. “According to Benson, Harper showed up and watched Cassie’s first and only day of filming. The day she walked off the set was the one and only time Harper ever came to the studio.”
Bautista seemed to mull this over as his second beer arrived. After the server was gone, he said, “Maybe Harper and Diamond paid Cassie back for wasting their time. They probably had a lot of money tied up in the production.” He tipped up his beer.
“It’s possible, but from what the studio told us, neither was prone to violence, and Harper has more money than God.”
He set his glass down, his eyes drifting away. I thought I’d lost him. “You still with me, Bautista?”
He focused. “Sorry. I was just thinking about something Cassie said when she called me the day she was murdered—something about it being right there for everyone to see.”
“What was she referring to?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea. I didn’t press her since we were planning to meet later. But, I think she might have been talking about her father—maybe who murdered him.”
A couple of patrons walked by. After they passed, I said, “Pearl and I are going to talk to Harper tomorrow.”
His eyes softened. “I appreciate what you’re doing, Kate—everything.” He turned his hands palms up, wrists coming over to me. “Guess my time’s about up. I’m yours if you want me.”
I looked at his hands. They were the rough, working class hands of a cop who didn’t mind doing the heavy lifting in a job that was never easy. They were also the hands of someone who needed help proving his innocence. I made a decision at that moment and knew there would be no turning back.
“That line isn’t working for me, Bautista.” I took his hands and moved them back across the table. “When you think of something better, give me a call.” I eased out of the booth, looked at him. “And, just for the record, I was never here.”
Nathan Kane sits in the dayroom gazing out the window. The day has dawned clear and warm. The rocky backdrop of mountains and a scattering of clouds above the barren landscape beckon. Two more days and he will be free.
Sixteen years and fifty-one days in the custody of prison authorities has left him craving freedom. Setting the final pieces of his ticket to freedom in motion has stirred the desire to a fever pitch. That, and having his way with the prison psychiatrist.
He is almost certain Marsha Wentworth will cooperate. But almost certain isn’t enough. He needs a guarantee.
When the attendant takes him by the arm and they walk to the psychiatrist’s office, he’s ready to set the guarantee in motion. One look at Wentworth as she stands and closes the door behind the orderly tells Kane that she’s terrified. Perfect.
Dr. Wentworth returns to her desk and slides a copy of her psychiatric evaluation over to him. Her voice is barely audible. “The report is complete. I’ve recommended your parole.”
Kane takes a moment, glances through the narrative, focusing on the key phrases in the summary recommendation…
severe and debilitating symptoms…progressive dementia…ineffectual treatment modalities…minimal risk…release and monitor
…
The prisoner tosses the report back to her.
“Nicely written, Doctor.” He smiles as her eyes dart away. “I need you to disappear for a few minutes.”
Wentworth rises to leave, but he stops her. “I need your cell phone, please.”
She hands him the phone and walks out the door.
After the call is answered, Kane wastes no time getting to the point. “I want to know if he’s dead.”
He hears the anxious breathing and senses the tension on the line. “He’s still lying low. We’re doing everything…”
“That’s not good enough.” He wants to scream but manages to keep his voice low; controlled. “If I have to take care of things when I get out, you know what that will mean.”
The man’s voice pitches higher, “You’ve got to understand. This isn’t easy. We’ve taken care of Diamond…”
“What about the woman, Detective Sexton?”
“Up to her eyeballs in shit with the department…she’s getting the message…I don’t think she’s a threat.”
He ends the call, cursing the incompetent idiot and saying, “See to it that she’s not. I’ll make an assessment when I get out.”
When the psychiatrist returns, he hands her the phone, then watches as she lays it on her desk and begins moving some files around.
“I have to be sure,” Kane says, almost feeling the anxiety coming off the shrink. “There can be no mistakes when you testify, Marsha. I don’t want any hesitation. If the district attorney shows up and argues against parole, you have to be firm and convincing. Everything depends on it.”
Dr. Wentworth finds a tissue. Her voice is garbled with emotion. “I will be convincing.”
Kane stares out the window, his lips turning up. “There will be an accident.”
He hears the shrill panic in her voice. “What are you saying?”
His eyes, like those of a predatory beast, swing slowly away from the window, his gaze finding her again. “If parole isn’t granted, ten minutes later Marianne will be dead.” He watches with amused detachment as the psychiatrist breaks down. “This must be the best performance of your life, Marsha.”
Dr. Wentworth brings her hands to her face. Her body convulses with sobs. “Please don’t hurt her. I’m begging you.”
Kane comes around the desk and places a heavy hand on her shoulder. The psychiatrist jumps like she’s been hit by a jolt of electricity.
“Speaking of performances, Marsha,” he says, lowering his trousers. “It’s time for an encore.”