Hollywood Lust Page 21

  We chatted aimlessly as we drove until Natalie mentioned the museum theft they were still working on. “I think we’re gettin’ closer to putting the caper together. When you get back from startin’ Armageddon, we can all work on going undercover to nab the piece of clunge that did it.”

  I’d tried to put tomorrow’s meeting with Janice Taylor out of my mind. “Does Gladys still think her cousin was involved?”

  Mo answered. “That’s her suspicion. She said he’s always broke.” She looked over at Natalie. “Told you it was Spider-Man.”

  “Spider-Man?” I said.

  Natalie turned to me. “It’s just a hobby her cuz has. We’ll explain everything about it to you later.” She changed the subject. “Don’t forget, next Tuesday night, Izzy is makin’ the Hollywood Sign disappear. We’ve all got front row seats.”

  “I still don’t know how he’s going to pull that one off, especially on live TV.”

  “Same way he put Nana’s dress and wig on you,” Natalie said, reminding me of a recent performance where her boyfriend had called me out of the audience and performed some makeover magic of the worst kind.

  “I’m still trying to forget the trauma,” I said as we turned off the highway into a rural area.

  Topanga Canyon was in the western part of Los Angeles County. The semi-famous boulevard wound through an area that was steeped in Hollywood history. I remembered reading somewhere that Humphrey Bogart and Carole Lombard lived in the canyon at one time. Subsequent residents included everyone from Joni Mitchell to Neil Young, and even Charlie Manson, who spent some time there as a wannabe rock star.

  The area had steep outcroppings of rock where Topanga Canyon Boulevard cut through the chaparral-covered hills. The hillsides above the road had a scattering of businesses, including general stores, cafes, taverns, and new age spiritual centers. This was Hollywood’s rural version of a hippie-retreat, where experiments in both music and lifestyle had prevailed over the years.

  Imaginary strains of music from the 1960’s, everything from Buffalo Springfield to The Doors seemed to swirl through the air as we pulled to the side of the road. I saw there was a steep staircase leading up the hillside.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I asked. Darkness was beginning to settle in and there was a slightly forbidding aura to the otherwise deserted canyon.

  “Lana Palmer lives up there,” Natalie said, pointing to where the stairway disappeared into the heavy cover of brush. “She’s got one of them yogurts that she lives in.”

  “Yogurts?”

  “Baby sis means, yurt,” Mo said, opening her door. “She’s living one of them alternative lifestyles.”

  It took a couple of minutes for Mo to extricate her big body from the car. After she joined us, Natalie said, “Lana’s a nature freak and wants nothing to do with civilization.” She waved us over to the stairway. “Follow me.”

  We spent the next ten minutes making our way up the hillside. Bernie practically pulled me up the staircase, while Mo huffed and puffed behind us. We stopped on a landing, where we saw some lights in a clearing beyond where we stood.

  “I gotta aerate,” Mo said, as she bent over gulping in some air. “It’s something I learned in one of them workout classes. My body’s like a 747 with a couple of jet engines. It’s gotta be fed enough air.”

  I let Bernie go ahead of us with Natalie. As Mo wheezed some air into her lungs, I had a thought that she was actually operating a cargo plane that’s enormous twin engines, aka breasts, were misfiring. I was worried that she might go into a tailspin at any moment and not make it up the stairway, but kept my thoughts to myself. When she’d finally recovered, we made our way up the final steps and over to where Natalie and Bernie were waiting for us.

  “Isn’t this the bomb?” Natalie said.

  She and my big dog were standing in front of a billowing white structure that seemed a little out of place in the brush-covered hillside. As we took in the scene a woman with a flower in her shoulder-length gray hair came outside and introduced herself.

  I knew from having googled her name that Lana Palmer was now in her mid-sixties. She was, according to the article I read, an artist specializing in painting with natural materials. She had a pleasant, round face that radiated kindness as we introduced ourselves and made small talk. Like so many people whose years had caught up with them, Palmer looked nothing like the young woman who had worked with some of the biggest stars in Hollywood back in the 1980’s.

  We were invited into her yurt, which I found was spacious and comfortable. Several of her paintings hung on the walls. They were mostly abstracts with vivid colors.

  We then took seats around a small kitchen table while Bernie settled at my feet. Palmer offered us tea and mentioned her earlier conversation with Natalie. “The Hollywood lifestyle seems like a lifetime ago.” As she finished serving the tea, her violet eyes swept over her living quarters. “Correction, it was a lifetime ago.”

  Natalie sipped her drink, and set the cup down. “As I mentioned when I called, we’re lookin’ into the death of Jean Winslow. We understand you were her publicist at one time.”

  Palmer took a seat at the table with us. She placed her weathered hands around her cup and took a sip before answering. “Jean…it’s such a shame what happened. She was…a sweet person who never quite fit into the lifestyle.”

  “She sounds like she was unhappy,” I said.

  Palmer thought about what I’d said and then nodded. “I think she probably was. Jean was trying to find herself, and I don’t think that ever really happened.”

  Natalie didn’t mince words. “Is that 'cause of assholes like Donald Regis who was trying to control her?”

  Our hostess laughed. “Yes, probably…Donald. I haven’t thought about him in years.” She found my friend’s beautiful hazel eyes. “Do you know if he’s still alive?”

  Mo nodded, swept red hair away, and answered for Natalie. “He’s living like the king of Beverly Hills on one of them big fancy estates worth millions.”

  There was more laughter. “I’m not surprised. He was always trying to give the impression that he was larger than life.”

  “We understand that Jean was under contract to him at Wallace Studios and she wasn’t happy about it,” I said.

  “Yes, I was working with her at the time. She finally realized Donald was a control freak who wanted to direct every aspect of her life. It took her a while, but she finally grew tired of him and broke things off.”

  I decided to be direct and mentioned what we thought we already knew. “Did your relationship with Regis have anything to do with that?”

  Palmer smiled. “I doubt it. Donald and I had a brief fling but we were never in a relationship. It meant nothing.”

  “But Jean found out about that and it ended your friendship,” Natalie said.

  She nodded. “It’s a shame. I tried to explain things to her, but she didn’t want to listen. It was a sorry chapter in my life, but it helped me realize I wasn’t cut out for the Hollywood lifestyle. A couple of years later I moved here.” Her eyes lifted, taking in her surroundings. “It’s a very spiritual place.”

  “Did you know a man named John Sexton?” Natalie asked. She glanced at me, back at Palmer. “He worked a lot of the studios back then, doing security work.”

  My pulse quickened as Palmer nodded. “I remember him from Wallace Studios. Actually, he and Jean were…”

  “He was my father,” I said. Maybe I’d interrupted her because I was afraid that she’d say my love-dad and Winslow had been involved. I exhaled and said, “Let me put our cards on the table Ms. Palmer. We have reason to believe that Jean Winslow’s death was something other than a suicide and that my father was murdered to cover it up.”

  “Oh, goodness.” The teacup in Palmer’s hand fell onto the wooden table top and spilled what little contents were left. “John…your father I mean…he was murdered?”

  I nodded. “By a man named Ryan Cooper.”

 
Palmer’s weathered features tightened. She then looked at her spilled tea. “I’m sorry. Let me get a dishcloth.”

  We waited while she cleaned up the spill. She then sat back down and said, “I’ve heard the speculation over the years about Jean’s death not being a suicide. Do you really think she might have been…murdered?”

  Natalie answered, “It’s not only possible, we’re gonna bring the dirty wazzock who killed her and Kate’s dad to justice.”

  While Palmer processed what she’d said, I tried to refocus the conversation. I realized I needed to hear the truth about Winslow and my love-dad, no matter how difficult that might be. “What can you tell me about the relationship between Jean and my father?”

  Palmer’s eyes brightened. “They were friends. I think John…your father…he saw that Jean was vulnerable and being used. He was very protective of her.”

  “As I said, my father was eventually murdered by Ryan Cooper. He was a make-up artist at one time and may have had connections to Donald Regis. Does Cooper’s name ring a bell?”

  I got a slow nod. “He was the principal make-up artist for several of Jean’s movies. Not a very nice person as I recall.”

  “Do you think Cooper could have been involved in the death of Winslow, along with Donald Regis?”

  Lana Palmer’s gaze held on me. There was an almost imperceptible movement of her head up and down. “Yes, I think it’s possible, but there was also someone else.”

  “Someone who was involved with Winslow?”

  “Yes.”

  My brows lifted, waiting for her to go on.

  Finally, she said, “Jean had become involved with a wealthy producer, a man named Kellen Malone. He was…” Her voice trailed off and she didn’t continue.

  “What can you tell us about this Malone guy?” Mo asked.

  Palmer went on after a few moments. “He was a complicated person. I don’t know all the details, but it was said he had as much power behind the scenes in Hollywood as Donald Regis. He had a circle of friends that he was always with. They were scary, so I stayed away from him.” Her eyes found me. “I remember mentioning him to your father once. He said he was worried about Jean’s relationship with him.”

  “Do you know if my father ever confronted Malone?” I asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Was Malone involved with Jean around the time of her death?” Natalie asked.

  We got a nod, nothing else.

  My gaze remained fixed on Palmer. “As I said before, Ryan Cooper murdered my father. Do you think he could have done that at the direction of either Donald Regis or Kellen Malone?”

  Lana Palmer folded her weathered hands together and her indigo eyes met me. “Hollywood was a very different place back then. Money and power controlled everything, including the stars and the studios. If someone murdered Jean Winslow, it wouldn’t surprise me if they also killed your father to cover it up.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  After not getting much sleep I dropped Bernie off with my friends the next morning before an FBI driver picked me up. Commander Rob Nelson was already in the car. As we drove, I asked Nelson why he was tagging along.

  “It’s a show of solidarity. The department wants to put its best foot forward regarding Taylor’s confession.” The commander, who was in his mid-fifties, bald and thin, smiled. “It never hurts to take a little credit when one of the biggest cases in American history ends with a confession.”

  I unbuttoned my black blazer and released a breath. “This isn’t over.”

  His brows lifted. He had one of those know-it-all bureaucratic smiles that I hate.

  I went on, “Taylor might confess, even ask for the death penalty, but there are others who will take her place.”

  “The Swarm?”

  “Along with the other leaders in her group, those left of the original seven.”

  The commander lowered his baritone voice. “After Taylor signs her confession, there will be a news conference and press release. We’re going to announce that we have those who acted on Taylor’s behalf in the killings in Florence in custody.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Their names will be released at the press conference. They were basically dupes, acting in concert with Taylor to set up the killings before she was arrested. They confessed to everything and admitted it had all been planned for weeks.”

  “Did they implicate anyone else?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Just between you and me, Chief East spoke with the head of the FBI yesterday. They believe the threat from this group has been neutralized.”

  “Really?”

  A nod. “While, there may be other isolated actors out there who are still dangerous, with Taylor and the others going down, the concern is now minimal.”

  “So, neither the FBI nor the department is concerned about the others, like Taylor, who are giving the orders behind the scenes?”

  Nelson splayed his hands. “The concern at this point is general, not specific.” I got another bureaucratic smile. “The chief is very pleased with your actions and the outcome of this case.” The smiled broadened, making me wish I had a barf bag. “Good job, Detective.”

  There wasn’t much small talk after that. Nelson and I boarded the FBI jet and flew in silence. It didn’t entirely surprise me that the threat from Taylor’s group had been minimized. Her confession would make for lots of positive press and sound bites. The bigger picture would get lost and the story would quickly become old news as the press moved on to the latest sensational story. I’d seen it happen too many times to count, and it was something that I planned to talk to Greer and Dawson about. The threat was real and still out there, and, if I had anything to say about it, the case wouldn’t end with Janice Taylor’s confession.

  As we traveled, my thoughts eventually drifted back to last night’s conversation with Lana Palmer. I had the impression that she’d been honest with us. Her affair with Donald Regis had probably caused a permanent rift in her relationship with Jean Winslow. It seemed increasingly likely that my love-dad had tried to protect Winslow and ended up paying the ultimate price for it. And it was now apparent that both Donald Regis and Kellen Malone had been involved in Winslow’s life at that time, along with Ryan Cooper, who was her make-up artist. It all smelled of a conspiracy and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  The knowledge that Winslow had probably been killed as a premeditated act of domestic violence caused me to again think about Lindsay’s circumstances. I felt like fate was waving lots of red flags in front of me, telling me that I had to do something to protect her. I decided that when our case was over I’d either find a way to talk some sense into my sister or make plans to go see her.

  Some of my anxiety lessened when I checked my phone and saw that I’d received a text from Noah before we’d boarded the plane. He told me how much he’d enjoyed our dinner together and was looking forward to our trip to Santa Barbara. I returned the text and the sentiment, thinking how my relationship with Noah felt like the best thing that had happened to me in years.

  We arrived in Denver just after ten and a driver took us to the Federal District Courthouse. The area around the federal building was heavily congested, with lots of security and press from all over the country. After moving through several checkpoints we managed to work our way inside the building, where we met with Joe Dawson and John Greer in a first floor hallway.

  “They’re supposed to bring Taylor in through the underground security tunnels,” Greer told us. “In fact, she may already be in the building.” He focused on me. “Her attorney wants to meet with you first. She told me that Taylor has made it clear to her that she wants you to be present when she signs the confession.”

  “I want in,” Dawson said. “I’ve been on this case with Kate from the beginning. I’ve earned the shot.”

  Greer looked up at Dawson, his lungs deflating. “We can try, but…”

  “I also want to be present,” Commander Nelson said. “L
APD has been instrumental in taking down Taylor. We’ve also earned the right to be in the room.”

  Greer glanced at a nearby conference room and said, “I’d also like to be present. We can plead our case to Gwen Macy, she’s the public defender representing Taylor. She’s been waiting for over twenty minutes, so we’d better get in there and see what she has to say.”

  “Nice of you all to finally make an appearance,” Macy said a few minutes later as we took seats around a table in the conference room where she’d been waiting. “My client has been downstairs in a holding cell for over an hour.”

  “Sorry to waste her valuable time,” Dawson said. “I’m sure she’s got dozens of errands to run back at supermax.”

  Greer headed off the confrontation before Macy could respond, making brief introductions. The public defender then took over again, fixing her eyes on me. “Ms. Taylor plans to make a full confession, with one stipulation. She wants you in the room.”

  “Why me?”

  Macy was a large woman, with dark hair and muddy brown eyes that gave me the impression she’d lost a part of herself dealing with her clientele. “All I know is that because of everything that’s happened in the past…she feels some kind of connection to you.”

  Greer spoke up. “I’d like to be present, along with Agent Dawson and Commander Nelson. We’ll keep quiet, stay in the background.”

  Macy shook her head. “My client made it clear. No one else is to be in the room.”

  I felt heat spreading across my chest and up to my cheeks. Just the thought of being in the room alone with Taylor pushed my anxiety level off the charts. I also resented the fact that she was trying to dictate the rules.

  “I want them in the room or I don’t go in,” I said.

  Macy’s gloomy eyes fixed on me again. “Are you telling me you’re willing to forego a confession because of your own…safety concerns? There will be guards outside the room, watching everything from the security cameras.”

  I knew the attorney’s question was about her trying to exert power as much as it was about belittling my concerns.