Hollywood Assassin: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Read online

  “It’s the legal term for officers under disciplinary investigation. It allows you a bill of rights, so that any questioning follows a formal procedure, giving you the right to representation.”

  I took a fork full of salad, thought about my little black dress ripping at the seam, but dipped the lettuce into ranch dressing anyway. “You do know this is all a load of bullshit so that Drake can save face over trying to shoot an unarmed man?”

  A moustache twitch followed, like Chester was sniffing for cheese. “They’re going to say Jack Bautista was armed and the captain used reasonable force while you interfered.”

  My blood pressure spiked. “Whose side are you on, Mr. Chester? Do I need to remind you that reasonable force does not mean you try to shoot a man carrying a bag of groceries in the back?”

  The rat set his fork down, blotted the spaghetti sauce off his moustache. He splayed his arms. “I’m on your side, Detective. I’m just telling you how I think this will play out.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. “The OIS report should clear me of any wrongdoing.”

  The rat was heading back to the spaghetti bowl and said, “Haven’t seen it, but I hope so.”

  “You haven’t seen it?” I stood and tossed my salad in the nearest receptacle. My gaze met the rodent’s beady eyes as they came back up from the bowl. “Doesn’t the bill of rights allow me to see evidence that might be presented at my so called interrogation?”

  Chester stood. “Calm down, Detective. We’ll get access to the report, but they don’t have to provide it until the interrogation. Then we’ll see if they have any kind of case.”

  I ran a hand through my damp hair. “See you at the inquisition.” I pivoted away from the rat, pulling Bernie with me as I left the café.

  ***

  Charlie and I spent the afternoon chasing bad guys through an apartment complex not too far from the Pinewood. As Bernie and I were heading home, Wilma Bibby called to let me know she’d found the Carmichael reports. A short drive later, I was standing in the Records Identification Bureau with my mouth open.

  “Wilma, what happened?”

  The records clerk did a little pirouette, showing off a hairstyle that was something out of the Miley Cyrus punk school of cosmetic catastrophes. Her hair was bright red, spiked, cut within two inches of her scalp. Flaming red lipstick and magenta shadow completed the makeover meltdown.

  “I have a friend in beauty school,” Wilma explained. “What do you think?”

  I think you lost your mind, Wilma. The hair is a disaster. You look like a chunky radish. It’s not Halloween.

  “It’s very trendy. You’ll probably get noticed more.” I’m a very polite liar, sometimes.

  “It’s easy to get ready in the morning,” Wilma said, handing over the Carmichael reports. “This was misfiled—wrong month and year.”

  I was surprised that the file only contained three sheets of paper. The report said John Carmichael was last seen at his place of business on September 16, 1984. It had been filed by a Lydia Grayson, the secretary for the missing filmmaker. Grayson reported that Carmichael had not been seen for two days and calls to his home had gone unanswered. The woman wasn’t aware of anyone who might want to harm him and she didn’t think he was despondent at the time he disappeared.

  I looked up at Wilma. She had a compact mirror out and was primping. “Are you sure there aren’t more reports? This is the initial Missing Persons Report. There should be a supplemental report, at the very least, indicating that the investigation was closed.”

  “I’m still looking, but so far nothing’s turned up.”

  I thanked her and pushed away from the counter. “I hope George likes the new do.”

  “There’s a church social this Friday. George should be there. I’ll let you know.”

  I hoped George was on medication.

  ***

  I was on Melrose passing Highland Avenue on my way home when my headlights swept over a hitchhiker on the side of the road. As I passed him, the man’s cap rose and a smile parted his lips. Was I imagining things or had I just passed by Jack Bautista?

  I pulled to the curb. The hitchhiker was several yards behind me, walking in my direction. Maybe it wasn’t Bautista. Picking up a hitchhiker in Hollywood was like playing Russian Roulette. I locked Olive’s doors, resting my hand on the gun in my purse. I said to Bernie, “Heads up.”

  Bernie whined as a hand knocked against the window. The wanted detective bent down and smiled at me. I exhaled, unlocked the door, and told Bernie to settle.

  “Just so you know, I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers.”

  He smiled, but I saw the fatigue in his face. “Just so you know, I never take rides from strangers.”

  I pulled away from the curb as he buckled in, said hi to Bernie. “You look a little beat down, Jack.”

  “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 stopp
ed 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  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 planned or your head will roll.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  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.”