Hollywood Assassin: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Page 14

  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.”

&n
bsp; 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I wasn’t scheduled to be at work until noon the next day, so Natalie and I paid a visit to Pearl Kramer in the morning. As we walked up the pathway to the cottage, Bernie trotted behind us, still favoring his sore leg.

  The vet had checked my hairy partner and assured me it was only a sprain, but I still worried. Maybe Bernie was bringing out the maternal side in me.

  “Got a fresh pot of coffee on the patio,” Pearl announced, after greeting us.

  On the way to the patio, we got a tour of his cottage. Casual furnishings. Overstuffed sofa, chairs. There were also lots of paintings, some his own, and masks.

  “I’ve been a mask collector for twenty years,” Pearl said. “Some are primitive, a few are from Africa. Even have an assortment of Mardi Gras masks.”

  Natalie pointed out a party mask with a downturned expression. “Looks like a guy I once knew in Liverpool. Nuttier than a squirrel’s cheeks.”

  Pearl showed us to the patio where we saw the unfinished painting he was still working on. I saw that some forms were starting to take shape. Modern art?

  “Still waiting for the images to find me,” Pearl explained, referencing the painting. He poured us cups of steaming coffee.

  We took seats on the patio where I told Pearl and Natalie about Roger Diamond possibly being Joaquin Robinson’s drug connection.

  “According to the detectives, the dearly departed was into both porn and drugs. He used his connection to the drug trade to curry favor with celebrities and athletes.”

  Pearl’s silver hair glistened in the mid-morning sunlight. “Any speculation about Harper being involved in the drug scene with Diamond?”

  “No, but this is where it gets interesting.” I took my cell phone from my purse and handed it to Pearl. He seemed confused until I explained that my phone received e-mail.

  He put on his glasses; studied the screen. “Phones with e-mail? What’s next?” I showed him how to scroll down to the message from Avenal State Prison. It read:

  Detective Sexton;

  Per our conversation I’ve attached the list of inmates either sentenced or transferred to Avenal from 2012 until the present. As I mentioned, we don’t keep logs of telephone calls unless there’s a legal issue, but we do have visitation records if you find someone of interest. Regards,

  Patty Washington

  Avenal State Prison

  Inmate Records Division

  Pearl began scrolling through the list of names before removing his glasses and looking over to me. “Nathan Kane?”

  I nodded, meeting his gaze.

  Natalie was examining the screen over Pearl’s shoulder. “Who is this Kane fellow? The way you’re actin’ he must be some kinda prison rock star.”

  “Kane was transferred to Avenal from Folsom in May of 2012,” I said to Pearl. “Ostensibly for medical treatment and because of a downward classification of his risk level.”

  Pearl handed the phone back to me. He massaged his brow as I continued, “I called Patty Washington this morning. She checked the visitation records. There’s no record of Harper ever visiting Kane, but…”

  “Let me guess,” Pearl said, still kneading his brow. “Roger Diamond?”

  “He visited Kane on a regular basis, up until about two weeks ago.”

  Natalie was up, pacing. “Okay, I’m startin’ to get a case of the uglies ‘bout this Kane fellow.”

  Pearl pulled back his chair and stood up. He freshened his coffee and said, “As I recall, Nathan Kane was sentenced to life in prison for murder and some drug charges back in the nineties. The vic had something to do with organized crime.”

  “An east coast operative named Marty Rubin,” I said. “According to the case summary Patty Washington read to me this morning, Rubin was connected to an east coast syndicate that ran drugs from Columbia. The organization was trying to establish a foothold on the west coast and began supplying drugs to the L.A. area.

  “Kane controlled almost all the drug traffic at the time and a turf war developed. He wanted to send a message to the syndicate and Rubin ended up floating in a canal over in Venice. The feds got involved, Kane eventually admitted the murder to an informant. He plea-bargained the case in state court to a life term.”

  Natalie clapped her hands. “Now we’ve got a gangsta involved in our case. This thing is gettin’ bigger than Paul McCartney’s alimony payments.”

  “According to the department’s narcs,” I went on, “Kane is still behind a lot of the drug trade in Hollywood. He’s pulling the strings, using people like Diamond, even while he’s been behind prison walls all these years.”

  Pearl walked back to us and sat down. “I’m beginning to think Natalie is right. We’re onto something big, Kate, especially if Harper’s involved in the drug business with Kane.”

  “But why would a rich bampot like Harper be involved in the drug trade with somebody like Kane?” Natalie asked. “What’s in it for him?”

  “Now you’re thinking like a detective, Natalie?” Pearl said.

  I set my coffee cup down. “There could be lots of reasons. Maybe Harper took some special interest in the porn business and decided the tax breaks were too good to pass up. Or, it could be that Kane has something on Harper from the past and he’s been using him all these years.”

  “Like blackmail?” Natalie asked.

  “Maybe. We know from the phone records that Harper started making calls to Avenal in early 2012. The calls have continued on a regular basis since that time. There’s no one else on the inmate list he would have any reason to call.”

  I picked up my coffee, took a sip. “Maybe you two could work on the motive issue. We need to know what connection Harper has to Kane and how Diamond might have played into that.”

  “We’re on it like gum on a shoe,” Natalie said, beaming.

  “And, then there’s the Cassie Reynolds connection,” Pearl said. “The question is still out there. What did Cassie know that got her killed?”

  I finished my coffee. “I’m planning to pay Mr. Kane a visit later today. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  ***

  Bernie and I arrived at the station at noon. Charlie greeted me, fanning out a dozen pink messages like the winning hand in a poker game. “You get more phone calls than Irma.”

  I grabbed the messages. “How’s our favorite teenager?”

  “Packing.�
�� I glanced up from the messages. Charlie looked like hell. “She’s moving out this weekend.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I reached across the desk, touching my partner’s hand in sympathy. He acted like I’d put his fingers in a flame and pulled away.

  “Kid’s gotta learn,” Charlie said. “Besides, I think she’s bluffing.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I noticed I had a message from Mr. Wiener asking me to contact him. I showed it to Charlie just to relieve the tension. “He must have written it in the middle of the night, had the jail express mail it.”

  “Heard the Wiener show was a flop.”

  I filled him in on the disaster. I then spent the next fifteen minutes telling him about Conrad Harper’s phone calls to Avenal and Roger Diamond’s visits to the convicted killer.

  After listening to the developments, Charlie said, “I think you’d better take a look at your last message. Afraid IAD wants you to call.”

  After another one of Charlie’s watch your back lectures, I called IAD and was informed Detective’s Blaylock and Preston wanted to meet with me as soon as I could get to their office.

  I hung up the phone, felt a pounding in my head. I found some Godiva Chocolate in my desk drawer and wolfed it down before Charlie could jump me for it.

  I took Bernie by the leash and said, “Do me a favor, Daddy. Let the captain know that I’m heading downtown to meet with IAD and then going home sick.”

  After an hour in stop-and-go traffic, Bernie and I arrived at the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles where IAD was located. The Bradbury was a couple of blocks from the Police Administration Building and was home to something called, The Professional Standards Bureau. The department had recently given the Internal Affairs Division a name change, maybe hoping to improve its image, but everyone still called it IAD.

  The Bradbury was one of the oldest commercial buildings in Los Angeles. A central Victorian courtyard that rose almost fifty feet from the first floor, opened to caged elevators and marble stairways with ornate iron railings. The place had a comfortable feel that recalled a simpler era. It seemed out of place for a division that sometimes went out of its way to make life miserable for honest cops trying to do a thankless job.