Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  She pulled out her cell phone and called Larry, who was still in the hospital getting treated for his ‘scratch.’

  “Larry, it’s Charlene, how are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I’m at the scene. Do you remember when we were inside the motel room and Crawford turned on us?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “How far would you say Crawford was from us?”

  “I don’t know, fifteen, twenty feet. Why?”

  “I’m looking at the bullet holes in the wall behind us. They weren’t even close. What about outside?”

  “What about it?”

  She walked out to the parking lot and stood beside the car. “Tell me about the shooting.”

  Larry grunted. “Crawford had somehow snuck up behind me and fired two shots. The first missed, but the second got me, grazed my shoulder. It had almost missed as well.”

  “How far away was she?”

  “Same thing, maybe twenty feet at most.”

  “And you’re a big target,” Charlene said.

  “Up yours, Taylor. Is there a point to all this?”

  “I’m still not sure. Gotta go, Larry. Take care of yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Charlene hung up. In both instances, inside the room and out in the parking lot, Crawford had exhibited very poor shooting accuracy.

  She opened the Anderson folder, used her coat sleeve to dry an area of the car hood, and laid the file down.

  The bullet holes in Anderson, a direct quote from the coroner, “bullet placing was the result of perfect shooting.” And Anderson had been moving when he’d been hit. Had it been a lucky shot? Maybe one, but two, highly unlikely.

  The gun used last night was Sandra Philips’ .32. Charlene would have to ask Sandra how Crawford had gotten it.

  Charlene closed the file and got into the car, her bones tired and muscles sore. She thought about how this one case had affected a lot of lives.

  Would Jessica Philips ever fall in love and trust another man? She was a murder suspect in the media. Would she ever be able to live that down and lead a normal life in LA?

  Sandra Philips would never be the same again. Hopefully someday, someway, the young woman could push past it and live a happy, normal life. It would take a long time and a lot of hard work for the internal scars to heal.

  Beverly Minor was now a widow. Out of her husband’s shadow, away from the violence and abuse, both mental and physical, the woman could now move on.

  Carl Minor had avoided a major financial crisis. He also had lost a son-in-law he never liked. The real-estate tycoon would go on, business as usual.

  Marcus Lopez’s affair had never gotten out. He had dodged a bullet and hopefully had learned his lesson. He’d admitted his mistake and vowed to change. Charlene hoped, for his family’s sake, he would. Lopez had had a tough childhood, had beaten the odds, and had a lot to appreciate in life.

  Alberto Bianchi was still under investigation by the FBI, CIA, and IRS. He would always be a major player and always under suspicion. His daughter still hadn’t surfaced and might never. Bianchi was smart and would probably never be caught or outwitted by the legal system.

  Even though Margaret and Eric Connors might never get over what Anderson had done to their family, and wonder what life would have been like if they’d never met the man, they might be able to sleep better knowing Anderson was gone and feel a sense of retribution and maybe even closure.

  Everyone seemed better off with Ken Anderson dead.

  Sarah Crawford’s life had been altered after her father’s death, even before she’d met Anderson. She was a lost soul, who had never found her role in society. Charlene wasn’t a religious person, but Crawford had needed help, maybe spiritually.

  Larry would survive. The gunshot had sliced the deltoid muscle in his left shoulder. He would be in a sling and require physiotherapy to regain strength. But there were still some things Charlene wondered about Larry and her father.

  And Charlene would move on to the next case. This one was deemed a success. She was already being given high praise and commendations for her exceptional work, but she still didn’t feel right.

  Three people had died. Ken Anderson, a man who lived a reckless lifestyle, tearing down anyone in his path. Maybe he wasn’t a good man, but he didn’t deserve to die. Sarah Crawford, a woman living through pain and torment, mentally unstable, abused her whole life, had taken her own life. Nelson Porter, a street punk who never had a chance, a witness in the wrong place at the wrong time who’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

  What had he really seen? Charlene hadn’t had time to ask Crawford.

  Although Crawford’s body had yet to be found after the record-breaking rainfall, it was only a matter of time before the Harbor was drained. Maybe a week, maybe a month, but eventually her body would turn up.

  Crawford’s belongings were searched and no weapons were found. She must have discarded the Anderson murder weapon.

  Even though she was frustrated, Charlene was proud of her small team. Maybe she could have done some things differently, but she would learn from her mistakes. Reflection was part of the job, as well as getting better with each case. You never stopped learning.

  Twists and turns were always part of a roller coaster case. So many suspects, all with motive and opportunity, no alibis, and so little evidence to follow.

  She started the car and headed back to the office thinking about the pile of papers on her desk. There was always a pressing case file waiting.

  Chapter 27

  Charlene was filing away the last of the Professor case on Friday when her name was called from across the lobby. She looked up to find a young, thin, red-headed officer with her head stuck inside the department door.

  “Detective Taylor, you have a visitor.”

  Charlene wasn’t expecting anyone. She dropped what was left of the folders and exited the Homicide department, crossing the lobby floor. A woman, in baggy sweatpants and a windbreaker, wearing a cap with a ponytail stuck out the back, stood alone at the front desk.

  The woman surprised Charlene when she turned around. “Margaret,” Charlene said.

  “Hi, Detective Taylor.” Margaret’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I asked my father to drop me off. Can we talk?”

  “Of course.”

  Charlene led Margaret Connors to her desk in the Homicide division. Charlene knew that Margaret coming to the precinct, alone in public, was a major breakthrough. Maybe Anderson’s death had given her a new sense of self-confidence.

  Charlene borrowed the chair from Larry’s desk and pulled it over. Margaret sat down and Charlene took her own seat, waiting for her visitor to speak.

  Margaret looked as if she had something to say, but her attention was focused on the busy office, the cops milling about, papers bustling, and phones ringing.

  “Margaret,” Charlene had to say her name to get her attention. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Margaret shook her head, clasped her hands together, and dropped them into her lap. She began to play with her pinkie ring.

  Charlene sat back, relaxing her muscles. After sensing the appropriate time had lapsed, she tried again. “What can I do for you?”

  “My dad wanted to come in with me. But it’s time I start living my life again.” She hesitated and then continued. Her voice was a whisper. “I heard you caught the person who killed Professor Anderson.”

  “That’s right. It was Sarah.” Because it had all gone down in the wee hours of the morning, the newspapers had already gone to press and there was nothing mentioned in today’s editions, although the TV and radio personalities were all over it.

  Charlene continued to tell Margaret about the connection between Sarah and Anderson, the fire killing Sarah’s parents and the Sandra Philips’ rape.

  Margaret listened and when Charlene finished, the rape victim shook her head, her slender neck and scrawny shoulders follo
wed along. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m sure it’s difficult to digest,” Charlene said.

  “I just don’t buy it. I don’t believe that Sarah is capable of that. She…”

  “Don’t forget about the fire. She admitted it to me,” Charlene argued.

  “I know, but this is different.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know about Sarah?”

  “Well, after my…incident…with Professor Anderson, Sarah was supportive, but never to the point of wanting to extract revenge.” She used the word ‘revenge’ while making air quotes. “Sure, she was upset, but we often talked about how to get over this and never once did she mention getting back at him. She didn’t hate the guy and thought that if he sought help, he could change. She called it a disease. It was almost like she felt bad for the guy and knew all about it.” Charlene wanted to tell Margaret that Sarah had been abused herself, but didn’t see how that would help, so she let Margaret vent. She also didn’t mention that Sarah herself had slept with Anderson.

  “Sarah tried to help me through it, mentally, until I quit school and moved back home. She visited a few times, but eventually she just disappeared. We lost touch after that.”

  Charlene was taking notes, but none of it made sense. None of what Margaret said matched the information Charlene had received in her investigation. From Detective Jackson’s words, Sarah wanted vengeance, wanted Anderson to pay, wanted blood.

  Margaret stopped and took a deep breath.

  Charlene was thinking of what to say next when Margaret spoke. “Sometimes I wish he would’ve killed me.”

  Charlene felt a sickness within her, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m serious. Just because he didn’t, doesn’t mean he didn’t end my life.”

  Charlene believed Margaret.

  “Did you ever see a gun in the dorm room?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Sarah didn’t like guns. Actually after the incident, we took a women’s self-defense course. One part of the program was to attend a shooting range.” Margaret released a quiet giggle. “Sarah was the worst shot in class. Not even close to the targets.”

  Charlene believed that, remembering Crawford’s sporadic shooting at the motel.

  “But I was obviously wrong about her. She seemed to have fooled a lot of people.”

  Charlene took Margaret’s hand. “Sarah’s life was one big lie. She was a pro in the art of deception.”

  Margaret nodded. “I guess. What I really came by for was to see if there would be a service for Sarah.”

  “Once we find Sarah’s body, since she has no remaining family to identify the body, her inheritance will all go to the state to pay for a funeral, if there is one. I can direct you to the proper authorities when the time comes.”

  “Thanks.” Margaret stood up and reached out her hand and Charlene accepted it. Even her handshake felt firmer and more confident. As she was about to leave, the sound of a deep-throated laugh in the back snapped Margaret’s head.

  Charlene turned to follow Margaret’s gaze.

  “Is that Officer Jackson?” Margaret asked.

  Charlene saw Adrienne Jackson, in street clothes, standing at the end of the hall sipping coffee and talking with another detective.

  “I hardly recognize her out of uniform, but it looks like her.”

  “How do you know Detective Jackson?” Charlene asked.

  “She was one of the cops assigned to my case. She came to my dorm room, followed me to classes, and even came to my parents’ house when I moved back. She was pretty disturbed when we dropped the charges.”

  Charlene wondered what Jackson was doing in street clothes, in the Homicide division at that moment.

  “Why don’t you sit back down, Margaret?”

  ~ * ~

  Margaret Connor’s testimony planted a significant seed of doubt.

  After seeing Margaret out, Charlene sat at her desk and thought about what she’d heard. She’d faxed Jackson’s picture to Dean Brown at USC. The dean had confirmed that Jackson was the female officer who had been investigating the Anderson rape.

  Charlene picked up the phone and called the front desk.

  “Henry, who is Adrienne Jackson partnered with?”

  “That’d be Bobby Johnson.”

  “Great, get a hold of him for me.”

  “I’ll have to page him.”

  “Tell him to call me at the office, ASAP.” She hung up before receiving acknowledgement.

  Charlene jumped from her seat and rushed across the room, hoping that Darren was still in, but didn’t expect it on a late Friday afternoon, after they’d successfully solved the Anderson case. She found his seat was empty and she cursed under her breath, checking the entire room. She went through the numerous books and papers on his desk and tried to open the drawers but they were locked.

  She called out to no one in particular. “Has anyone seen Darren?”

  “Check the bathroom.” The words came out of the pack, and Charlene couldn’t tell who said them.

  She rushed across the lobby and slammed her way into the men’s restroom. She found Darren standing at the urinal, pulling up his zipper.

  “Jesus, Chip, what the hell are you doing in here?”

  “Do you still have that black book?” Charlene hoped he hadn’t already filed it downstairs and marked it as evidence to go into the vault. It would take some explaining to get it back out.

  “Of course.”

  “Great, I need to see it.”

  “You couldn’t have waited five minutes? Do I have time to wash my hands?”

  ~ * ~

  Darren unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the book.

  “How far did you get?”

  “All the way to ‘S’,” he stated proudly.

  “Did you find Adrienne Jackson in there?”

  “You mean Detective Jackson, from Rape?”

  “The same.”

  “Why would she be in there?”

  “Did you find her name or not?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Damn it.”

  Charlene returned to her desk where her phone was ringing. She picked up after the fourth ring, “Detective Taylor, Homicide.”

  “This is Detective Johnson. I was told to give you a call.”

  “Thanks for calling, Detective. Is your partner with you?”

  “No, we’re off tonight. I’m at home with my family. What’s up?”

  Why is Jackson at the precinct on her night off?

  Time to ask questions without raising suspicions. “Sorry to bother you at home, but this will only take a minute. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your partner.”

  “What about her?”

  Charlene knew the LAPD partner bond—a trust that couldn’t be broken. She had to tiptoe.

  “The captain was thinking about promoting Jackson to Homicide and he wants me to get some info on her.”

  “Oh, sure,” the officer said, seeming to loosen up. “What can I tell you?”

  “Just tell me about her.”

  “Okay, well, Adrienne’s a damn fine detective. She’d be real good on your staff, real capable and all. She’s thorough, assertive, and I trust her with my life more than anyone I know, including my wife.” He hesitated, as if checking to see if his wife was around.

  The detective had an accent that Charlene couldn’t place.

  “How would you define Adrienne?”

  “That’s easy, tough as nails and merciless.”

  Strange adjective to describe a partner.

  “What about her abilities?”

  “Top notch! She can shoot better than any cop I seen. Perfect accuracy every time we go to the range, including moving targets. She’s relentless, persistent, and overall, I’d say she’s the best cop on the force. And you can quote me.”

  Charlene remembered watching Jackson at the shooting range.

  “What about family?”

  “Never mentions m
uch about her parents. I know she’s divorced. Said she made some bad decisions. Says she’s making changes and trying to better her life and the world as a whole. Don’t really know what that means.”

  “What mistakes did she make?”

  “Well, Detective, you know how partners are, we confide in each other. She said the divorce was her fault. She’d fallen for another guy, acted on impulse, and because of her stupidity she’d lost a man who truly loved her. At the time, she thought she was in love, but quickly found out the guy wasn’t who she thought he was.”

  “Did she say who this guy was?”

  “Nah, just some doctor.”

  Anderson wasn’t a medical doctor, but he did have a PHD.

  “What kind of gun does Adrienne use?”

  “Berretta 92, LAPD standard issue.”

  “Any other weapons?”

  “Oh yeah, she has a complete arsenal at home, loves guns.”

  “What about a nine mil?”

  “Don’t know for sure, never saw the arsenal. Probably though, the nine mil is a pretty common weapon. These are pretty unusual questions.”

  Charlene had to recover. “That was a personal one. Love weapons myself. Thanks for your time, Detective.”

  “No problem. And great job on the Anderson case. Adrienne told me you found his killer.”

  “Thanks.”

  Charlene hung up and punched Jackson’s name into the employee database. She scanned down with a jaundiced eye, looking for anything relevant. Then she found it.

  Jackson’s father was serving time on a rape conviction at California State Prison in Lancaster. Charlene ran his prison ID number thru NCIC and the State Department of Justice to find out more about the case.

  It was Adrienne who’d come forward and testified in court against her own alcoholic father. The man had not only abused his wife, but he’d also taken advantage of his only daughter, Adrienne.

  Charlene scanned the rest of the pages, impressed by Jackson’s impeccable record as a cop and her remarkable shooting scores. Johnson was right. Jackson was one of the best the LAPD had.

  As Charlene was searching the file a second time, she caught it. Jackson was her maiden name, gone back to after the divorce. Only a short time ago, she’d been married and taken her husband’s name, not legally, but socially. She picked up her phone.