Hollywood Games: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller Page 17

  “What’s an Eannernet?” Natalie asked.

  Fred’s wife came over and confronted my friend. “Is that some kind of crack about our heritage? Because if it is, I want you out of the house now.”

  That was Mo’s cue take up the cause. She came over and stood breast to breast with the southern beast, I mean belle. “Listen to me, lady. You got no legal claim to this property unless a judge says so.” She motioned to Larry’s brother who was flexing. “Phyllis here will escort you off the grounds.”

  Berta looked over at the big man and began laughing. “Phyllis? Really?”

  Maybe Phyllis was still in need of some work on the sixth step of his anger management program. His already huge body puffed up and he turned red as he came over, picked up Fred and Berta by the scruff of their necks, and effortlessly carried them over to the street. He dropped them at the side of the road.

  Phyllis’ huge body towered over the couple. In a sonorous voice he said, “Unless you got a deed to the property, never come back here.”

  As they headed for the U-Haul, I overheard Berta saying to her husband, “I got the name of a lawyer from that TV show where the all women claim the same guy’s the father of their baby. I’m going to call him when we get to the motel.”

  After they left, we all went into the house where Mo said she needed a drink. Natalie brought over a beaker of something called Chica Loca. It was a homemade elixir concocted by her former boyfriend that was eighty proof.

  It was against my better judgment but I was exhausted after the day’s events and accepted a glass of Crazy Girl. Even Larry and Phyllis joined in. Lindsay came downstairs, but was smart enough to decline the drink.

  “We gotta be more vigilant ‘bout these squatters,” Mo said after taking a big gulp of her drink. “If we’re not careful we’ll have us a pack of southern werewolves living with us.”

  “I can start doing regular patrols of the perimeter,” Phyllis offered.

  “Maybe we should all get guns,” Natalie said. “Blow the nuts off Jethro and his friends if they come back.”

  “Everyone calm down,” I said. “I’ll call the attorney for the estate in the morning, see what he suggests. Our lease guarantees the peaceful enjoyment of the property pending the completion of probate.”

  “So far there ain’t been nuthin’ peaceful about it,” Mo grumbled.

  “I talked to Harvey today,” I said, purposely changing the subject. “He’s excited about doing the acting workshop at the theater.”

  Natalie clapped her hands. “Sonny’s got it all arranged. He’s handing out free tickets to the UCLA students for the concert. We should have a full house.”

  “Is that cowboy of yours gonna make it?” Mo asked.

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. He’s busy with his job on the island. I’m going over and spending tomorrow night with him.”

  “I wish Eli would take me someplace,” Lindsay said. “All he ever wants to do is study.”

  “Maybe you should buy him a pair of cowboy boots,” Natalie suggested. “I hear that cowboys do everything with their boots on.” She looked over at me and smiled.

  “This stuff is really good,” Phyllis said, looking at his glass of green slime.

  “I’ll second that,” Larry said. He turned to Mo and smiled. “I got me a pair of cowboy boots.”

  “Maybe later,” Mo said. “I’m busy getting slimed right now.”

  “I’d get Sonny a pair of boots,” Natalie said. “But I’m not sure it would do any good.”

  “What’s a matter with that boy?’ Mo asked.

  Natalie sighed. “He’s just not very…physical.” Her hazel eyes brightened. “Hey, maybe I need me a makeover.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Mo said. “I think we should dye your hair red like mine.” She was wearing a red wig tonight. My friend looked over at Larry, smiled, and batted her fake eyelashes. “Take it from me. Men love redheads.”

  Natalie tossed Mo her car keys. “Let’s go. I need a dye job and a man or I’m gonna go tits up.”

  Mo said they’d get some hair dye in the morning. I sipped the last of my Chica Loca and looked up in time to see that Claude and Dr. Lester were headed into the room.

  “Here comes the Adams Family,” Mo whispered. I’ll betcha the troll’s dug up a body and is putting Frankenstein together in the basement.”

  “We demand some answers,” Claude said, coming over to me, with Lester trailing behind.

  “Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” I said, feeling the effects of my drink.

  “What’s going on with the murder investigation?” Lester demanded. “We have a right to know.”

  There was no way I was going to tell these two the blood on the knife might belong to Bridget Welch. “Our crime lab is still looking at the knife. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  Claude turned to Lester. “I think we need to call the press in the morning.”

  “That’s a grrr…” The little man stopped talking in mid-sentence, fell over, and began snoring. A moment later, he released a groan deep enough to rattle the windows.

  “It’s his narcolepsy and Catathrenia,” Claude said. “He’s sleeping like a baby.”

  Mo got up and said to Phyllis. “Go find me a bar of soap. I’m gonna stick it down his throat and cure him if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Claude said. “He has a medical condition.”

  “So do you, blood sucker.” Mo called out to Phyllis who was already heading for the bathroom. “You might wanna stop by the kitchen, Hulk. We’re also gonna need some garlic.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  After I got to my desk the next morning, I spent some time nursing a Chica Loca headache and consoling Harvey over yesterday’s events. “You’re not the first cop to barf on the job. It happens to almost everyone.”

  Harvey sighed and brushed a hand through hair that was losing some of the highlights. I noticed for the first time since I’d known him that he was turning gray at the temples. “But it keeps happening to me. Did you talk to your friend?”

  “Brie’s scheduled you to meet her at the morgue tomorrow. She’s got enough bodies and barf bags to keep you busy all day.”

  “I hope I survive.”

  I glanced over at Bernie who was resting beside my desk. He looked worried, maybe thinking Harvey might slime him the next time he saw a dead body.

  “What have you and Pearl got planned for the day?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “He wants to go over the list of Bundt’s victims. We’re going to have to do notifications to all the victims, some who probably have no idea that they’ve been spied on. After that it’s a matter of determining who’s been blackmailed and finding out whether or not they took revenge on Bundt.”

  Even though it was an arduous task, it sounded better than the day I had planned. Bernie and I spent the rest of the morning in a conference room where I prepared for my interview with Jerry King. I expected that the FBI would try and take over the questioning and I was determined that Hammer and I would stay in control of the investigation.

  On my way to Men’s Central Jail, I dropped Bernie off to spend some time with Bubba at my mother’s house, since I planned to go directly to Catalina after my workday ended. I called Buck after leaving Mom’s and told him that I’d meet him at seven that night on the dock in Avalon, Catalina’s harbor. I also told him that I’d need to cut the weekend short because of our investigation. He said he understood and told me that he’d made reservations for dinner at a restaurant near the harbor.

  It was mid-afternoon when I met with Carl Hammer in the administration wing of the jail. He told me there were two FBI agents assigned to interview King with us and that they were already setting up in a secure conference room the jail had arranged.

  As we walked down the corridor I already regretted the day’s fashion choice. I had on my best Ann Klein pantsuit, but it was warm in the jail and I dreaded the thought of spending sev
eral hours in a stuffy interview room.

  We were greeted by Preston Shepherd outside the conference room.

  “This is going to be a good day for all parties involved,” Preston assured us, displaying his ever-present smirk. “My client walks and you get to fry the biggest fish in Hollywood.”

  “And maybe solve a murder in the process,” I said.

  Shepherd’s eyes held on me for a moment. “Perhaps.”

  Before King and his lawyer were brought into the conference room, we met with the assigned FBI agents, Special Agents Robert Goodwin and Sandra Duncan. Goodwin was about thirty-five, six feet, and solidly built with the prerequisite FBI haircut and dark suit. Duncan was around the same age, African-American, and tall. Something about her reminded me of Robin Roberts, the TV anchor. I wondered if she might have played basketball in college.

  “Here’s how this goes down,” Goodwin said, wasting no time telling us where they stood. “We have a list of prepared questions. Agent Duncan and I will take turns moving through the list. When we’re finished if you two have any follow-ups we’ll see about those.”

  I raised a brow and looked at Hammer. His face was flushed with anger. It was one of the few times I appreciated having an arrogant loud mouth for a partner.

  “Not going to happen,” Hammer said. “This is our investigation, our case. We ask the questions and you guys get to listen. We’ll give you a few minutes at the end for any follow up.”

  “You need to see things from our perspective,” Sandra Duncan said. “We’re the ones providing protection for King. The government has an interest in seeing that all information is thoroughly developed so that the case against Rafi Wayland is solid.”

  “We’re fully capable of obtaining all the information,” I said. “Detective Hammer and I both have several years on the job and have done thousands of interviews.”

  “But if the case against Wayland is solid it will be prosecuted in federal court,” Goodwin countered. “We’re the ones on the hook if this doesn’t go well.”

  “No one is going to be on the hook for anything,” Hammer said. “You need to back off and let us do our jobs.”

  The discussion, or argument, went back and forth for another twenty minutes before Hammer and I prevailed. I had little patience for Goodwin or Duncan or the federal government, for that matter. As far as I was concerned, the federal bureaucracy was good at one thing; perpetuating systems that were archaic, slow, and seldom got anything worthwhile accomplished.

  When King and his lawyer arrived we turned on a tape recorder and spent several minutes outlining the conditions of immunity that had been agreed upon beforehand. After Shepherd exercised his vocal cords probably in an effort to justify his hefty fee, we got down to business.

  “Let’s begin,” Hammer said to King, “by discussing your whereabouts during the day Alfred, aka: Jiggy Biggs, was murdered. I want a complete accounting from morning to evening.”

  Despite his grant of immunity, King looked tired and wary, probably the result of being in jail, but also because life as he knew it was over. “I got up around nine-thirty that day, had breakfast, and made a few phone calls. I then went to the Alibar Hotel around noon.”

  “And what was the purpose of you going to the hotel?”

  King glanced at his lawyer, who nodded. “I received a call earlier that day that Rafi Wayland wanted me to meet him there at noon.”

  “Did Wayland call you?”

  King shook his head. “One of his associates, a guy named Kenny called. I’m not sure about his last name. He said that Rafi needed to discuss some business issues.”

  “What happened when you got to the hotel?”

  There was another glance at Shepherd before King answered. “Wayland was upset with me. He said that Jiggy and I had gone back on a deal to provide one of his suppliers with heroin.”

  Hammer met my eyes for an instant. This was the first we’d heard about the realtors dealing heroin. Hammer went on, “How much heroin are we talking about?”

  “A dozen kilos.”

  My brows shot up. I knew that the wholesale price of a kilo of heroin was about $150,000 depending upon supply factors, so the transaction King was talking about would have been in the neighborhood of two million dollars.

  “Tell us about the deal you had with Wayland.”

  King took a moment to huddle with his attorney before summarizing his relationship with Wayland. “Jiggy introduced me to Rafi about three years ago. He knew him from his rap music days. When Jiggy became a realtor, he sold Rafi a house up in the hills and I helped out with the transaction.

  “We all eventually became pretty close. One day Jiggy and Rafi told me that they had a business proposition. They said they wanted me to go in on a plan to obtain large quantities of prescriptions drugs from a doctor in Hollywood.”

  “Nolan Cruise?”

  He nodded. “And others.” He gave us a list of the physician’s names before continuing. “We supplied lots of drugs to Wayland for about a year before he told us that he wanted to take our relationship to another level.”

  “As in the heroin?”

  He nodded. “Jiggy knew a supplier who had a source that came directly from Afghanistan. He said he could supply Rafi several kilos a year that came into the country through Travis Air Force Base.”

  “Tell us exactly how the supply chain worked.”

  King spent the next several minutes explaining that heroin was supplied through a connection with the Taliban in Afghanistan directly to a civilian military contractor. The contractor then arranged for military transport planes to secretly bring the drug into the country. Once the shipments arrived, they were provided directly to Wayland’s employees who, in turn, distributed the drugs to suppliers in several states. It was a multi-million dollar drug smuggling operation with the U.S. government unknowingly acting as the conduit.

  The room was quiet for a moment after King finished his explanation. We’d known about Jiggy Biggs’ ties to Blood Nation for some time, but, if what King was telling us was true, he and Biggs were involved in a multi-million dollar drug dealing operation.

  I felt nothing but disgust for both men. They had used our country’s military infrastructure to bring a drug into the country that caused nothing but heartache and, in some cases, death to the users. It was the worst form of betrayal I could imagine.

  After he’d fleshed out a few more details, Hammer looked over at me and nodded. It was the signal for me to take over the questioning. I’d noticed that the two FBI agents had been frantically scribbling notes while King talked. What had started out as a murder investigation was now a major drug smuggling case that could very well lead us to the highest levels of government.

  “Let’s go back to the day Jiggy Biggs was murdered,” I said to King. “You mentioned earlier that Wayland was upset with you and Biggs because you’d gone back on a deal to provide him with heroin.”

  King nodded. “Our drug supply had begun to dry up. I don’t know exactly why, but I think it had something to do with the Taliban. As the war began to wind down, it became increasingly difficult to get both the heroin and a transport plane to bring it into the country. Wayland was expecting a dozen kilos about six weeks ago and the supply never came through.”

  I brushed a hand against my damp forehead. “And that’s why he wanted you to meet with him at the Alibar Hotel?”

  King nodded. “He threatened me, even though I tried to explain about the supply problems. It was a difficult time for everyone. My real estate sales were down, Jiggy owed a lot of money for his gambling debts, and Wayland said his suppliers were angry with him that the drugs weren’t coming through. We were all under a lot of pressure.”

  I decide to ask the question I’d come into the room wanting an answer to. “Did Wayland have Biggs killed because he wasn’t supplying the drugs?”

  King breathed, ran a hand through his golden hair. “That’s my take on it. He told Kenny to take some guys and go over to Ji
ggy’s house and deliver a message. At the time I thought maybe they were supposed to just scare him, but later I realized they’d probably killed him.”

  I tugged on the collar of my blouse, feeling the dampness caused by the heat in the room. “And in the meantime what happened at the hotel between you and Wayland?”

  “Rafi kept me locked in a room for several hours. Late in the day he said I could go, but told me that he’d be in touch.”

  “Why do you think he didn’t give you the same treatment that Biggs got?”

  King’s attorney interrupted. “That calls for speculation, Detective. He can’t pretend to know what Rafi Wayland was thinking.”

  “We’re not in a courtroom, counselor. I’m asking for his opinion, not to be a mind reader.”

  Shepherd shrugged and nodded at King. The realtor said, “Maybe Wayland thought I could find a way to reestablish a connection with our drug supplier.” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

  Based on what he’d said, it seemed likely to me that King, rather than Biggs, was the major player behind the drug supply.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “I tried calling Jiggy, but he didn’t answer his phone. I didn’t want to leave a message because I was worried if something happened to him the authorities might think I was somehow involved.”

  I released a breath, deciding that, for the most part, the way King told the story was convincing. All the factors, involving Biggs’ gambling debts, both men needing money, and Rafi Wayland running a drug smuggling empire with King’s help seemed to add up, but I still wanted something more.

  “Is there anyone we can talk to who can substantiate what you just told us?”

  “Jiggy’s agent knew what was going on. Casey Ross probably won’t want to talk about it, but maybe if you push him hard enough he’ll confirm what I just said.”

  “And what about Barry Steiner? Did he know about the drug dealing?”

  King shrugged. “Probably, but he didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was getting Jiggy to pay his debts.”

  “Do you think he could have killed Jiggy?”