Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  COP?

  Did her father think the Celebrity Slayer was a cop? Did he know who it was?

  Underneath that single word was a short list of names. Was her father making assumptions? Did he have proof?

  Charlene recognized some of the names and shivered at the thought. Most were retired, but some still going strong.

  Charlene turned to the first page of her father’s notes and flipped through.

  He had cut out newspaper articles in which the police were quoted as saying, “at this time, no information can be reported in order to successfully continue the investigation,” which basically meant the police had nothing.

  On the third page, Charlene found something interesting that her father had noted from a shoeprint found outside the house of one of the victims. It was either a man’s size eight or a woman’s size ten. A small man’s foot or a large woman’s foot. He also suggested that the killer had a forefoot strike gait—toe to heel, ball of foot lands first—with no limp, which can be read from the depth and location of the footprints.

  Charlene leaned back in her chair and stretched. There was one burning question.

  Why celebrities?

  Serial killers don’t normally choose high-profile victims. But from what Charlene had seen, the Celebrity Slayer was anything but normal. Even though these victims were B level stars, they would have better security and more people watching them than the average man.

  Did the hunt matter?

  Book III

  Motive

  Chapter 20

  Berry and Clayton had confiscated boxes of material from Anderson’s home and were sifting through the documents in the back room when Charlene arrived at the office Tuesday morning. They were also going through the contents taken from Anderson’s office, but so far nothing of significance had been found.

  Alberto Bianchi’s file sat on Charlene’s desk. The folder was thick with hunches and possibilities. Bianchi was involved, allegedly, in a lot of schemes, including the gambling ring, but not murder. This didn’t feel like a mob hit to Charlene, but she wasn’t about to eliminate anyone at this point.

  Larry still wasn’t in, so Charlene looked through the Bianchi file herself and found something interesting. She buzzed Dennis Watson in Vice.

  “Dennis, it’s Charlene.”

  “Did you get the file, Detective?”

  “Yeah, thanks. It says here that Bianchi has a daughter.”

  “That’s right, allegedly.”

  “What does that mean?” Charlene sat back in her chair.

  “Well, rumor has it that Bianchi knocked up some New Yorker when he was seventeen. His old man, embarrassed and outraged by the whole thing, paid the woman to disappear and shipped her to the West coast. When Bianchi was old enough, his pop sent him out here to be closer to his daughter. But since Bianchi arrived, over fifteen years ago, no one has seen proof of a daughter or a woman that age hanging around. We don’t even have a picture. She could be any twenty-seven-year-old walking the street.”

  “Who’s the mother?”

  “Don’t know that either. Bianchi’s father went to great lengths to keep it a secret.”

  “So you have no idea who our missing women are, mother or daughter?”

  “Like I said, Detective, we don’t even know the mother’s name or if a daughter even exists. It’s all speculation and hearsay. The mother could have remarried. The daughter might be using her step-father’s name or her mother’s maiden name. In all honesty, we don’t even know if Bianchi’s daughter knows who her real father is.”

  “What about the FBI? Do you think they have any idea?”

  He chuckled aloud. “Even if they did have that information, they certainly wouldn’t share it with us.”

  “Thanks, Dennis.”

  Charlene hung up, wondering if Bianchi’s daughter was in Anderson’s black book. There would be no way to know, without DNA samples, and the department didn’t have the funds, or the time, to test every woman in the book.

  She quickly picked the phone back up and tried the phone number left in her apartment by the anonymous Fed.

  No dice, number disconnected. Charlene slammed the phone down.

  It had been four days since Anderson’s murder. Charlene found the Investigating Officer’s Chronological Report on Larry’s desk and looked through it. Larry had all the bases covered.

  She went over again what they had on the Anderson murder, the facts looping around in her head relentlessly. Who benefited the most from the professor’s death?

  Jessica Philips was having an affair with the victim. Anderson refused to leave his wife, knowing that his marriage into one of the richest families in America had its advantages, but not enough to keep him from cheating. Then he raped Jessica’s sister, Sandra.

  Sandra Philips, one of the rape victims. Not just the physical damage, but the emotional hurt and humiliation alone was enough to send any woman over the edge, wanting to exact some sort of revenge. From Darren’s call to the Chicago Gun Club, Charlene knew that Sandra was an expert shot. The bullets found in Anderson’s chest were perfectly placed, while he was in motion. But Charlene also understood that shooting at targets in a gallery was significantly different than aiming at a human. The gun got a little heavier, the trigger a little tighter, and the instinctive shaking made the firearm difficult to aim.

  Of all the suspects associated with the case, Ashley Stanley bothered Charlene the most because there was absolutely nothing on her. Stanley was a roommate and close friend. If the woman in the photograph taken from Margaret Connors’ home was indeed Ashley Stanley, as Charlene suspected, that meant Stanley was directly linked to Anderson at the time of both rapes. That gave Stanley double motive.

  Charlene knew that rape is a crime of violence, not sex. How far had Anderson pushed and had he pushed the wrong person?

  All three women in the house had both opportunity and motive.

  According to her father, Beverly Anderson had been beaten and abused both mentally and physically. With a cheating husband and no prenuptial agreement, Anderson’s death was the only way out of the loveless marriage without a major financial impact.

  Carl Minor hated his son-in-law more than his fiercest competitor and would do anything to protect his daughter. He also had the money to hire a top hitman to eliminate Anderson, although, with the phone call to nine-one-one, Charlene doubted a hired assassin committed the murder.

  Bianchi was also a suspect, albeit a weak one, because of the flower petals found in Anderson’s shirt and Anderson’s gambling debt. The phone call yesterday from the unknown agent was also confirmation that Bianchi wasn’t solidly alibied.

  Charlene shook her head and grimaced. She just didn’t buy it. The flower petals looked more like a decoy, but she couldn’t eliminate Bianchi because of what he was capable of. She thought about his carefully scripted exhibition at the pizza shop, as if everything he’d said had been rehearsed.

  Now add two more suspects to her list.

  Margaret Connors was also an Anderson rape victim, and there’s no telling how many more there could be. Most women never come forward.

  Margaret’s life had been shattered. She’d quit school, moved home and lived a tortured life, with the everyday torment of her past. She would never be the same again.

  Her father, Eric Connors, also suffered the consequences of the rape. He lost two women, his daughter mentally and his wife physically. He probably blamed both on Anderson’s vicious act, if not directly, then at least indirectly. How far would a loving father and grieving husband go?

  Eight suspects with motive. This case was moving at dizzying speed, with no sign of slowing down.

  Charlene’s opinion was that no MO match existed in the state files or the FBI’s VICAP database. Jessica’s admission that nothing had been taken told Charlene this was not a robbery gone astray, but a planned, premeditated kill by someone close to the victim. Someone who could fire a gun with expert precision. Charlene was sure th
at Anderson had known or had preliminary contact with the murderer prior to that night.

  Taking the time to put the flower petals, already dyed in black ink, in the victim’s pocket in an attempt to frame the mob also suggested the killer was organized and prepared. Maybe a seasoned professional or at least someone accustomed to death.

  This was not random. It was personal. That thought kept circling in her mind.

  She got up to stretch her legs and saw Darren returning to the case desk. It looked as if he had just come back from fixing himself up in the bathroom. He had a file tucked under his armpit.

  “Darren, how’s it coming with the black book?”

  “I’m sorry, Chip. I need a little more time.” The officer slumped in his chair. “There are a lot of names.”

  “While you’re checking the names, try to track down any more rape victims connected to Anderson. We know about two for sure, but I bet there are a few more that haven’t come forward. You might even check rape records with unidentified suspects. You never know, we might get lucky.”

  Charlene returned to her desk and tried the Sarah Crawford angle again, punching the name into the computer. She checked the NCIC Database, DMV, INS, IRS, and SS files with no luck. It made no sense.

  Charlene saw Larry lumbering across the lobby floor, holding back an obvious smirk.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Charlene said sarcastically.

  “Reviewing background material and alibi checks is the real police work. The past is a guide, Taylor. Don’t forget that.” His smile was more obvious. He read from his notes. “Sandra Philips was, in fact, at her rape seminar, and it did end when she said it did. Ashley Stanley was at softball. Her coach and captain verified the team checklist.”

  So far, Charlene hadn’t heard anything promising.

  Larry went on. “Beverly Anderson did go to her yoga workout that night.”

  Charlene slumped her shoulders. “I thought you said…”

  “But,” Larry interrupted, “the teacher or sensei or whatever the hell he’s called said she left class early.”

  Charlene jumped out of her seat and held herself back from giving her partner a hug.

  Larry held up a set of keys. “I’ll drive.”

  ~ * ~

  During the ride, Charlene read from a file she’d pulled on the Andersons.

  “I wish we’d had this on our first visit,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “A police report. Beverly called nine-one-one a couple of weeks ago to report her husband on a drunken rampage.”

  “What happened?”

  “What seems to happen with Anderson. When the cops showed up, Beverly said it was all just a misunderstanding.”

  “Man, this guy was playing with fire. Rape, spousal abuse, adultery.”

  “Yeah and it looks like he finally got burned.”

  “I’m going to hit up a few neighbors to see if they have any information. You start with Beverly Minor and then I’ll come in,” Larry said.

  “Gladly.” Charlene bit the inside of her lip in anticipation.

  Beverly opened the door before Charlene had a chance to knock. The widow was dressed in spandex. Her hair was tied up and she was carrying a blue, rubber Yoga mat. “Oh, you startled me, Detective Taylor!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Anderson, but you never gave me a chance to knock.”

  “I was just on my way out. I’m already late.” Beverly impatiently checked her watch.

  “Please, Mrs. Anderson, this’ll only take a minute and it’s very important.”

  They went inside and sat on the couch. Charlene was amazed at the almost overnight transformation. Beverly no longer looked like a woman fighting her age. Her skin had been tightened by Botox treatments and the bags around her eyes were gone. No makeup emphasized the widow’s impossibly high cheekbones and elegant bone structure. Her brown hair had been freshly colored and small gold spheres dangled from her lobes.

  “Mrs. Anderson,” Charlene began, “I was filing through old reports and came across a nine-one-one call you placed a couple of weeks ago.”

  Beverly hesitated, as if thinking. “That was all a misunderstanding.”

  “So I’ve read. I’d like to hear about it.”

  Beverly crossed her legs, looking uncomfortably tense. Her eyes wandered around the well-furnished living room.

  “Fine, Detective, I have nothing to hide.” She looked at Charlene, as if waiting for a response. When Charlene didn’t give in, she continued. “As soon as he walked in the door that night, I could smell the perfume. I knew he’d been with a woman.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  She looked at Charlene and the detective could see desperation in the woman’s eyes. “I never had before. I didn’t want to face the reality, to be another statistic. Plus, I didn’t want to admit my father was right. But…I’d had enough.”

  She stopped talking, trying to catch her breath.

  Charlene waited.

  “He didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything. I got in his face, issuing dire threats of divorce, told him I would go straight to my father. That seemed to get his attention.”

  She went silent. Charlene urged her on. “Let’s go back to the night you called the police.”

  “There was something in his eyes.” Beverly looked off, fear on her face, as if seeing her husband again.

  “Did he hit you?”

  Charlene’s words broke Beverly’s trance. She looked at Charlene, a small smile spread on her face. “Not at first. He tried to calm me, but I was on a roll. I wasn’t thinking—I was just reacting. I had so much frustration, held my tongue for so long, that it was all just coming out. When I charged at him, that’s when he lost it.”

  Charlene let her go.

  “He hit me.” A single tear rolled down Beverly’s cheek. “He’d never done that before.”

  Charlene got up from her seat and sat beside Beverly. The detective took her by the hand.

  “He wasn’t like that when we first met.” She smiled, her eyes reliving better times. “We were madly in love and had so many plans—marriage, kids, grow old together. Once we got married, the honeymoon ended. It all fell apart. I tried to hold it together, and maybe I fooled myself for a while. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t change him. He crossed the line that night.”

  “Tell me, Beverly,” Charlene urged.

  She brought her hand to the left side of her face, as if feeling the blow. “I was stunned, more humiliated than hurt. He grabbed me by the arm and squeezed. He said, ‘You bitch! You mean nothing to me. I never loved you.’ He said it with such casualness that I knew he wasn’t lying. That it had all been an act. After he was done humiliating me, he threw me to the ground.”

  She lifted her shirt to reveal a large bruise that was just starting to yellow.

  Charlene looked at her files. “I don’t see anything in your report about a hospital visitation.”

  “I didn’t go to the hospital. I was too humiliated.”

  “It’s not your fault, Beverly.” Charlene shifted closer. “So you called the cops?”

  She nodded. “Then I called my father, told him what happened. I didn’t want to involve him, but that night my husband scared me.”

  “What did your father say?”

  “He told me to send the cops away and he would take care of everything. But we never had to file the divorce papers because Ken was killed.”

  This just upped Carl Minor’s motive. A divorce would have cost millions.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you left yoga class early on the night of your husband’s murder?” Charlene watched for a reaction.

  Beverly looked to be deep in thought. “I forgot about that. I had a hair appointment.”

  “So if I call your stylist she’ll confirm your appointment? Where do you go?” Charlene removed her notepad and pen.

  Beverly crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “Fine, I didn’t have a hair appointment.” Her skin paled noticeably. Sh
e looked like she might be sick.

  Charlene didn’t act surprised because she wasn’t.

  “I lied to protect a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  She hesitated slightly. “I had an affair,” she said with real regret. “He’s married and I didn’t want to drag his family into this. They don’t deserve that.”

  Now everything was beginning to fall into place. “Did your husband know this?”

  She hesitated, shaking her head. “Not at first. He…”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “That’s probably my partner.” Charlene left Beverly and rushed to the front door, seeing Larry on the other side.

  “We’ve got a live one,” she said as she hurried back to Beverly.

  Larry chose the love seat, his bulk sinking in with a soft moan from the leather. He squirmed and opened his pad.

  He didn’t wait for pleasantries. “Mrs. Anderson, your neighbors claim they heard shouting and loud noises comin’ from your house the night before your husband’s murder.”

  Charlene interrupted. “Last time we spoke, you told us that you and Ken were in love. Why did you lie to us?”

  Beverly blew air from her cheeks. “Come on, Detective, I’m not an idiot. I know how that would’ve looked.”

  “What about your lover?” Charlene asked.

  Larry said, “Lover? What did I miss?”

  Charlene said nothing and neither did Beverly.

  She looked beaten. Beverly closed her eyes and sighed. “Ken caught us in the bedroom. I guess in reality I wanted him to. I wanted him to feel what it was like. They started yelling, sizing each other up.”

  “What happened?”

  Ten minutes later, as they were walking to the car, Larry said, “I guess we know where Anderson got the bruises. Do you think Beverly offed her husband? Or had this Marcus do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlene answered, “but I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”