Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  “You think the killer called the cops?”

  “Why would he?”

  “Or she,” Charlene corrected her partner. “Who was the first on scene?”

  “Davidson.” Larry fingered a young officer standing by the staircase and signaled him over.

  “You found the body?” Charlene asked the cop who couldn’t have been more than twenty.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “This the way you found it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” The kid shifted his weight from left foot to right. “I followed procedure. Make sure the vic is dead. Seal off the scene. Check for witnesses. And call it in.”

  “You alone?”

  “No, Ma’am, my partner was outside for backup.”

  “Anything touched?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Okay.”

  Charlene glanced over the room quickly. She wouldn’t get anything done with the mess of people. She had to get them out of the house so she could start her inspection.

  Her partner acted as if the same was on his mind. “We need to find these girls, and Anderson’s connection to them.” Larry turned to the ME. “Hey, Don, you got a smoke?” The ME handed Larry his pack of cigarettes, and the detective promptly lit one and waved out his match.

  Carl Minor’s involvement would ensure a high-priority autopsy.

  “SID has started collecting evidence,” Larry stated between puffs.

  “Okay.” She caught the attention of a tech from the Scientific Investigation Division and summoned him over. “Where’s Dana?”

  The tech looked annoyed. “She didn’t get this one. The boss sent me.”

  She acknowledged the newbie. “Let’s get everyone out of here and get the crime scene unit in. Detective Baker and I will take this room. Send your team over the rest of the house. We also need a unit outside to scour the yard.” She was getting into it when a young officer approached them from behind.

  “Detective Baker?” They turned and saw a young, white cop jogging through the doorway. He looked at Charlene. “Hey, Chip.”

  Charlene grimaced and nodded. “Darren.”

  Then he turned back to Larry. “Jessica Philips is here.”

  Charlene looked over Darren’s shoulder and found a young white woman with a look of concern and confusion on her face. The girl appeared to be in her early twenties, thin, well dressed and well groomed.

  When the cop noticed Philips in the house, he sprinted towards her, grabbing her tightly by the arm. “I told you to wait outside.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Darren,” Charlene stepped in. “Let her go. It’s fine. Have the cars impounded and towed back to the precinct to have the team go through them.”

  Larry and Charlene approached the woman. Charlene examined the suspect. Moderately attractive, black hair, blue eyes—about five seven, one hundred ten pounds. She didn’t move with the grace of an athlete, but, from the empty pizza box, Charlene guessed Jessica Philips didn’t worry about her weight. She wore blue jeans, a white T-shirt and white sneakers. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  “Jessica Philips?” Larry asked.

  “Yes,” the woman replied, clearly shaken.

  “I’m Detective Baker and this is my partner, Detective Taylor. We’re with the West LA Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD.”

  No response. Philips looked entranced by the scene, engulfed by LAPD officers inspecting her house.

  “Ms. Philips.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Jessica looked at Charlene. “What did you say?”

  “Detective Baker was wondering if you’d mind answering a few questions.”

  “Okay,” she agreed tentatively, her eyes still showing signs of uncertainty. “But what is this all about? What’s going on? Why is Professor Anderson’s car in my driveway?”

  Charlene looked around the room. Everyone was still watching them. Even the Captain had stopped what he was doing and had edged closer. They were all watching Charlene, on her first case, as much as they watched Jessica Philips. Charlene could feel the intensity of the stares.

  “Let’s take her to another room,” Larry suggested.

  Chapter 9

  They led Philips upstairs and into one of the bedrooms, closing the door, eliminating the noise.

  “Would you like something to drink, Ms. Philips?” Charlene asked.

  “No, thank you. Where are Sandra and Ashley?”

  Charlene looked at Larry, who asked, “Who is Sandra?”

  “My sister,” Philips answered.

  “Is your sister staying with you?” Larry asked.

  “She moved here two weeks ago.”

  Larry referred to his notes. “Your landlord, Lloyd Gladstone, said that only two of you live here.”

  Philips looked a little weary. “I hadn’t told him yet that my sister had moved in.”

  Larry wrote something in his notes.

  “Ms. Philips,” Charlene started. “As far as we know, nothing has happened to your roommates. We’re looking for Ms. Stanley now.”

  “Then who is out there?”

  Charlene looked at Larry, who shook his head imperceptibly.

  “Have I been robbed?”

  As a cop, Charlene understood how most people came to this inaccurate conclusion. Being robbed meant someone using violence to steal something from another person. In this case, it would have been a B&E.

  “Why don’t you take a look around to see if anything’s missing? Go with her,” he said to Charlene.

  Charlene followed Philips as they went room to room. On their way back to the bedroom, Philips shrugged and said, “I don’t notice anything missing. But it’s hard to tell.”

  When they entered the bedroom, Larry asked, “Where were you tonight, Ms. Philips?”

  “I went for a walk to clear my head.”

  “Were you with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so? The streets were bare.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went to the park around the corner and sat on the bench. I like to go there to relax. Then I came home.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “That’s a long walk,” Larry looked at Charlene.

  Charlene had been sitting back quietly, observing Philips and letting Larry run the interrogation. Now she asked, “What was bothering you?”

  “Just personal stuff.”

  “Where are your roommates?”

  “Ashley has a softball game, and Sandra is at a meeting.”

  Charlene checked her watch. “Do they always stay out this late?”

  Philips nodded.

  “Excuse us, Ms. Philips,” Larry said, summoning Charlene to the hallway and closing the door.

  When they got out, Larry asked, “What do you think?”

  “Pretty vague.”

  “I agree.”

  “I know I’m new to this, and you’re the lead, but let’s remember this is just preliminary questioning. We don’t want to lose her trust. She’s not a suspect, yet.”

  “Yeah, good. We need to make sure she feels at ease with us. We need her to relax, so we can trap her in any inconsistencies. That’s why I think you should do the talking.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re a woman, and young. You can relate to each other. She might open up to you.”

  “Okay.” Charlene took a deep breath and blew it out.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there to guide you. You’ll do just fine.” Larry smiled. “You ready?”

  Charlene nodded and they went back into the room. Philips stood up from the bed.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “If you want one, but I assure you, Ms. Philips, this is just routine. We really appreciate your cooperation and any information you give us that will help find out what happened here tonight would be very helpful,” Larry said.

 
“I don’t even know what happened here,” she replied.

  But Larry’s words of encouragement seemed to work because Philips sat back down. Charlene could see her shiver and offered a blanket to wrap around her. They had to keep the conversation casual.

  “I really want to know who is out there!” She started to rise from the bed.

  “We need to be certain first, Ms. Philips.” Charlene replied evasively. “Why don’t you walk us through your day?”

  “Nothing unusual happened. I went to school this morning. At lunch, I went to the bank. I had to get money out for our cleaning lady. She comes every Friday. Went to my usual classes, came home, inspected the work the cleaning lady had done and paid her. That’s about it.”

  They could confirm the time with the housekeeper.

  “So your roommates haven’t been home since you got back from school?”

  Jessica shook her head. “I wasn’t expecting them. They get home late on Friday nights.”

  “How did you know that the car in the driveway belonged to Ken Anderson?”

  Jessica looked at Charlene, and the detective thought she had struck a nerve.

  “Professor Anderson is my teacher at UCLA, and I also work as his assistant so I recognized it.”

  “Did you see Professor Anderson tonight?”

  “No.”

  Quick response, Charlene thought.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He hasn’t been at school the last few days. Maybe Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Would he have any reason to come to your house?”

  Jessica hesitated, and then said. “Maybe to drop off papers to mark. That’s part of my required duties as his Teaching Assistant.”

  Charlene looked at Larry, who just shrugged and urged her to continue.

  “Has Professor Anderson ever come by your house before?”

  Philips shifted uncomfortably on the bed before answering, “No.”

  Charlene was thinking of her next question when Philips stood back up. “Detectives, what is going on? Why are you asking about Ken?”

  Ken? Charlene looked at Philips. Not many students are on a first name basis with their professors.

  “Ms. Philips, Ken Anderson was shot and killed in your house tonight,” Larry said.

  Philips put her hand to her mouth, and tears erupted from her eyes. If this was an act, to Charlene, it was a hell of a performance. It looked genuine enough.

  Charlene found a Kleenex box on the computer desk and handed it to Philips.

  “Thank you.”

  Charlene again looked at Larry, who mouthed, “Keep going.”

  Charlene sat down next to Jessica. “If you weren’t home, if no one was home, then how did Ken Anderson get into your house?”

  “Maybe the door was unlocked.”

  “Do you often keep it unlocked when no one is here?”

  Jessica shook her head.

  “Did you lock it tonight when you left?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Charlene saw Larry roll his eyes.

  Larry grabbed Charlene by the arm and pulled her to the corner of the room. He whispered, “Let’s test for GSR right away, while you have her cooperating.”

  “Can we do that without the presence of a lawyer?” Charlene asked.

  Larry grunted. “Yes, we can test for it without probable cause, and it will stand up in court. It’s a good idea to do it now. Ninety percent of gun powder residue is gone after the first hour. We’ll never get this chance again.”

  “Ms. Philips, we’d like to run a test to remove you as a suspect to Ken Anderson’s murder,” Larry said.

  “What kind of test?”

  “Well, we know that the person who killed Ken Anderson fired a gun and sometimes trace evidence can be left on that individual. It’s just a test on you and your clothes that will tell us if you’ve recently fired a gun.”

  Philips nodded.

  Larry left the room and returned a minute later with a gloved lab tech holding a small kit. He nodded towards Philips and the tech used an adhesive lifter to swab her shirt and hands.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just testing for gunshot residue.”

  The man concluded his work and looked at Larry. “I’ll fill out the information sheet and get this to the lab for testing. Time frame of results will range anywhere from two to six hours.” Then he left.

  “Any idea when your roommates will be home?” Larry asked.

  Philips shook her head. “I can try to call them.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Philips pulled out her iPhone and punched numbers. When she looked up she said, “Both calls went straight to voice mail.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Philips. We appreciate your cooperation. Do you have somewhere to stay for a few days? Your house will be off limits,” Larry said.

  “Yes, we can stay at a friend’s house.”

  They left the room and headed for the front door.

  “You want to wait for the roommates?” Charlene asked.

  Larry shook his head. “Who knows when they’ll be back? I’d rather do some background checking and be more prepared for our next visit.”

  “We better notify next of kin.”

  ~ * ~

  The driveway lights were on when the detectives wheeled to a stop in front of the Anderson home. A long, black limousine was parked outside, and the chauffer was leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette and refusing to look in their direction.

  Every light in the house was on.

  “Looks like they’re all up. I guess we got here late,” Larry said.

  Charlene checked her watch. “It’s 2 AM. That’s weird.”

  They got out of the car and walked up to the door.

  Fulfilling this moral obligation as a cop sent chills through Charlene. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by Beverly Minor, wearing a baggy blue bathrobe. Charlene barely recognized the woman. Behind the makeup and fancy clothes, Minor looked like a normal person with dark bags under her feline green eyes, looking like someone who had come to terms with aging. Her brown hair was pulled back too tightly and white roots were beginning to show. The lines of worry at the corners of her eyes were prominent. This was not the woman Charlene had seen only months ago, looking picturesque in the newspaper in her expensive, over-done wedding dress. Today, the widow looked every day of her forty years. She also looked slightly medicated.

  Charlene could hear Larry approaching from behind, his heavy wheezing blowing hot air on her neck.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” Charlene flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Taylor and this is Detective Baker, with the LAPD. May we come in?”

  If she was surprised to find LAPD detectives at her door in the middle of the night, Minor didn’t show it. She didn’t exactly beckon them in, but turned and headed inside herself.

  “What did my husband do this time?” she asked, as she turned her back and showed the detectives to the living room.

  They followed her.

  “Let me do the talking,” Larry muttered.

  They entered a family room furnished with high-end furniture, Persian carpets and expensive paintings. The room was lit by an enormous antique glass chandelier.

  A balding man with a thin straight nose and an expensive suit sat on the sofa, and another stood at the window looking outside. When the man at the window turned, Charlene saw that it was Beverly Minor’s father, sixty-seven-year-old real estate tycoon Carl Minor, the self-made billionaire.

  “Detectives,” Carl Minor said and nodded. He lit a cigar and sat across from the detectives. The smell of expensive Cuban smoke filled the air as he blew out rings.

  Charlene studied the billionaire, dressed in a sharp, cashmere, double breasted navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks. His self-assured presence lingered like perfume. She wondered about his presence at two in the morning.

  Charlene waited, wondering if Larry was going t
o speak. She looked at him and shrugged, but Larry was staring at Minor. Finally, Charlene elbow-jabbed her partner.

  Larry looked at Charlene then at the widow.

  “Mrs. Anderson, we have some news about your husband.”

  Beverly’s face tightened, quickly turning her head, looking at her father who sat motionless on the chair. Charlene studied both their reactions, the billionaire suddenly interested in the conversation.

  “What is it?” Beverly asked.

  “Mrs. Anderson, a few hours ago your husband was shot and killed. We found his body in a house on Westwood Boulevard. His identity has been confirmed.”

  The room grew still. Beverly Anderson did not cry. Her eyes never fluttered. Again she looked at her father, as if requesting permission to react.

  Carl Minor broke the silence. “Do you have any leads?”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. Nobody in the room seemed to feel any remorse for Anderson’s death. So far, the mysterious man on the seat had said nothing. No one had even introduced him.

  “Mrs. Anderson, where were you last night?” Charlene asked.

  Beverly glanced at the man on the couch and inhaled sharply.

  Larry grabbed Charlene’s jacket sleeve and pulled himself into an upright seated position. “This is just a routine question we have to ask, Mrs. Anderson.”

  Charlene looked at Larry, but he didn’t look back.

  The man on the couch nodded to Beverly.

  “I was driving around. I do that sometimes. It relaxes me.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  Beverly shook her head.

  Again, Larry was silent, so Charlene pressed the issue. “When did you last see your husband?”

  Beverly shrugged. “This afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Anderson, how would you describe your relationship with your husband?”

  “Well, Detective, I’d say that Ken and I had the same relationship that all newlyweds have. We were in love and crazy about each other.”

  “Any arguments, disagreements, or fights recently?”

  Larry tried to stand but Charlene imperceptibly pulled him back.

  Beverly smiled. “Detective, you mustn’t be married.” She looked condescendingly upon Charlene. “Of course we had disagreements. Show me a couple that doesn’t and I’ll show you a couple that’s lying.”